We Hope You Enjoy Your Stay
by Medea Smyke
Summary: Saving Annie from the Quarter Quell didn't save her from the even larger threat of the Capitol. Heavensbee ordered her for her retrieval, but is rescue ever that easy? FinnickXAnnie. AU, written Pre-MJ release.
1. Enterlude

Geeky asked for this. Blame her.

FYI, the events in this story are written in tandem with the events in _And So We Run Redux Part II_. My theory about Annie is that she suffers from bouts of post-traumatic stress when triggered by things like the reaping. That doesn't make her crazy, slobbering or demented. And all the information we have on her is based on conjectures by Peeta and then revoiced by Katniss, both of whom have never met her, and have only seen her once in the clip from the reaping. So, not exactly reliable. And who wouldn't be hysterical if her only loved ones were going into the arena. ;)

p.s. I requested that Annie's name be added to the character list. Sheesh.

Update: Annie C. has been added to the character list! 6/7/10 :D

* * *

**Chapter One : Enterlude**

_We've seen it all, bonfires of trust, flashfloods of pain._

_It doesn't really matter, don't you worry, it'll all work out. – _TheKillers_, Exitlude_

* * *

_District 4_

_Year 75, Capitol Reckoning_

_Finnick's POV  
_

* * *

On a sleety March evening Mags snoozes in my armchair in the comfort of my living room. I might as well call the chair hers, since she's the one sitting in it as often as not. Annie sometimes calls it Mags's throne; if anyone deserves a throne, it's our mentor and the closest person to family that we have. The two of us are relegated to the leather sofa to watch the mandatory program the Capitol cooked up. Who'd have believed the Capitol would turn some girl's wedding into propaganda.

And yet, here we are, watching the experts interpret the latest polls, in which every citizen of the Capitol had a chance to vote for his/her/its favorite gown.

Scintillating.

Well, for Annie it is, to be honest. Though I don't see why. Mags and I are in agreement on this point. It's an ideal time for a nap. If only the old woman wasn't snoring so loudly. The air scuds down Mags's nasal passages in a fit of snorts that always makes Annie jump. At least she smiles now when Mags startles her, and laughs at herself, instead of the alternative.

"Turn the volume up so we can hear over Mags," Annie whispers.

"The sound system doesn't have that kind of capacity," I reply without bothering to lower my voice. Annie elbows me for being rude. I rub my bruised ribs and mutter, "Ow. You mean thing."

"Upstarts," Mags mutters. Her eyes are still closed like she's fast asleep.

Annie and I both jump. How does she do that?

"Sorry, Mags," Annie says contritely.

"I swear you looked asleep." I wink at Annie. "I'll make sure you are next time."

The old woman grumbles something under her breath, a suggestion of physiological impossibilities and maybe an insult directed toward my mother. Mags might as well direct the insult toward herself; she's the closest thing I've had to a mother in a long time.

"What did she say?" Annie asks me. Her brows knit together when she doesn't understand the things that come out of Mags's mouth, not because she can't decipher our friend's garbled speech, but because Mags is no lamb and Annie's a little less tarnished than the rest of us. I prefer to keep it that way.

Pasting a grin over my face, "Uh…I think it's the stroke talking," is all I decide to tell her. I reach for the remote and juice up the sound a few bars. Mags just grunts and pulls the afghan up around her chin. "Ah, that Caesar. What a funny guy," I mumble at the TV before Annie asks any more questions about Mags's vocabulary. "Please get Katniss to her wedding in style lest you affront our sensibilities." I lay the sarcasm on thick. Though not entirely satisfying, it's all the defiance I can muster at the moment.

Annie rolls her eyes at me. "You should talk. Finnick Odair who can't rise above anything that isn't trivial, such as your clothing. At least according to my sources in the Capitol."

"Hmm? Annie, I can't help it if I'm iconic." I sniff with false indignation. Then my eyebrows knit together. "You have sources?"

She points to an end table in the corner of the room. It's piled high with embossed letters; packages great and small; and strange, hybrid flowers wilting in their untouched delivery boxes. Some of the envelopes are a work of art. Nude art, usually. Unreliable self-portraits if I know the ladies in the Capitol – which I do, but not to the extent that everyone seems to think. I'm too afraid to see what their letters and gifts contain. I don't bother with any of these tributes except once a week when the waste management truck comes by.

"Your ladies have betrayed you." Her voice takes on a teasing lilt.

"Annie, have you been reading my mail?" I gasp.

"Of course," she says. "Somebody has to reply to those poor girls."

My eyes pop open. "What!"

"Joking."

I should hope so. Those are not the sort of women I want Annie in contact with – a bunch of harpies who would enjoy tearing into someone as vulnerable as she is.

"They really like you," she continues. "And they all think that you're in love with them."

It's getting uncomfortable on this couch. I try not to let that show when I say, "All part of the persona, love," with verve.

Annie smoothes out imaginary wrinkles from her skirt, not looking at me. "I wonder sometimes."

I cup her cheeks, holding her so I can see her face better. Annie's hazel eyes are changeable as the sea. They always reflecting her mood; sometimes mellow flecks of amber, or green, the color of turbulent water, winning out over the other.

"Well, don't wonder," I murmur with all the sincerity I can muster, and pray that she doesn't ask me again why I must behave the way I do in the Capitol when I know it hurts her. I can't tell her the truth. Yet. "Not about me."

Annie doesn't ask. She tucks her head beneath my chin, curling her feet up beneath her. She makes herself as small as possible although we have the whole couch to ourselves. My feet are planted on the floor leaving plenty of lap room that she won't take advantage of when Mags is in the vicinity – conscious or otherwise (especially since we can't always tell which it is). But I snake an arm around her shoulders and play with the long chestnut hair tumbling over her shoulders. She melts into my side, like she always does.

After Caesar introduces Cinna and smothers him in accolades, they cut away to footage of District 12, a little of its history, and then we're parked in Katniss Everdeen's living room. It's always unnerving to see a new victor. At first, you get used to them matted in dirt and gore, a manic or desperate luster in their eyes. Hollow cheeks. Half-naked, as often as not. You always expect to see them this way after staring at them on the large screens in the Games Headquarters for days on end. And then all of a sudden, they're buffed, waxed, painted, modified, washed and pressed into perfect little Capitol puppets. The only scars the Capitol _can't_ or _won't_ buff away are the internal ones.

And sometimes the new victors are shell-shocked. Sometimes they're belligerent. But the first tell-tale sign of a _true_ victor is the hardness in the eyes that settles in no matter how they come out. The funny thing about the Everdeen girl is that she had the look of a victor before she ever became one. Maybe that's what unnerves me the most about her.

Her fellow victor, Peeta Mellark, unnerves me even more. There are true victors and then there are incidental victors. You can always tell who is who. Unfortunately, things don't turn out any happier for the tributes who win by chance.

I only know of two incidental victors still alive today. Peeta and the girl sitting next to me. Peeta lived because his fellow tribute saved his life. Annie escaped because of a broken dam, saved by chance, because she could out-swim the others. Not because she could mow down her opponents. Not like me or Mags or Katniss. And the eerie factor comes from the way the boy from Twelve reminds me of Annie before her Games. She was a sweet kid, no more unstable than anyone else. Annie's still the sweetest girl that ever lived. But for most people, they have to be asleep to have nightmares. Not Annie.

But from the looks of it, Peeta is _still _a bright ray of sunshine. How is he so unspoiled by everything that happened to him when Annie snapped? Is he any better than her, any less fragile? I don't know if I believe in their love story, but there's something about that kid, some quality, that makes him stand out.

"Maybe you'll be invited to the wedding," Annie muses while some _expert_ comments on quaint district marriage customs. "If it's in the Capitol, I wouldn't be surprised if the officials invited their favorite victors."

Wonderful. I want to see what love looks like when it's…what did the headlines call it? Triumphant. I haven't had a good laugh in ten years.

"Maybe Snow will let me officiate?" I quip, pushing down my bitter thoughts. To be honest, I have a lot to thank Peeta and Katniss for. Like the fact that the spotlight I've been under for ten years is now directed on them. I can step back and breathe, take stock of things. Take care of Annie. _Be_ with Annie.

She shakes her head. "I doubt it."

"Why not?" I ask, trying to keep the trivial conversation going.

Annie doesn't disappoint. She replies deadpan, "Because you'd distract everyone from the bride."

I grin, loving how little she takes my celebrity seriously. "So that's why we aren't inviting anyone but Mags to our ceremony?" If you can call it a ceremony, when really it'll be more like an elaborate handshake in our secret cave.

"Exactly." Annie sniffs. "She's the only person I know who's tired of looking at you."

"Aha." I tweak her nose. "I notice you didn't include yourself."

She smiles, batting my hand away. "Unfortunately, that would be a lie. I love looking at you."

"I love looking at me, too," I say, slipping into my Capitol persona for a moment. My voice drops an octave. "But I'd rather look at you."

Annie's eyes widen, but I don't give her a chance to look over her shoulder to see if Mags is awake before my lips press into hers. After a moment of hesitation, she gives herself up to me. My arms draw her in like nets, determined not to let her go till she's settled on my lap. I'm filled with her, how sweet she tastes, the way her silken hair falls over my arms, and the sound of her short gasping breaths as the kiss deepens.

Annie pushes me back, swallowing air, long before I'm ready to let her go. Her chest rises and falls in rapid succession against my own. I won't push her any farther than she's ready. Very soon I'll have all of her forever. I just need patience…

Annie slides off my lap, adjusting her skirt and trying to focus dazed eyes on the television. She threads her fingers with mine, leaning back into our familiar position on the couch. I lower my head until my nose finds the spot just above her ear. Her scent fills my senses. She sighs.

Cinna and Caesar wrap up their chitchat and photographs of Katniss Everdeen lounging around in bridal getup are punctuated by gasps and screams from the live audience standing outside the Training Center.

"Pretty dresses," Annie muses as the images pan by on the screen.

They are pretty, I guess. Katniss's stylist has talent, that's certain. Annie would look pretty in them. "Do you want a real wedding dress?" I'd never considered it before, not with the way things have worked out. Maybe Cinna would cut me a deal? I could ask Haymitch…

"For an elopement? Nobody would get to see it," she murmurs.

I shrug. "So? If you want a dress, you can have anything…"

Annie shakes her head. "I was just saying. Katniss looks very nice in them."

Katniss looks like she swallowed lemons. Beneath her over-kill smile and chirpy narrating, I can see her skin crawl. "A sixteen-year-old girl should not be thinking about wedding dresses," I reply, wrinkling my nose in disapproval.

Annie laughs. I love the sound of it – the sound of her happy. "Most sixteen-year-old girls do anyway, Finn, especially when you're around." She plays with my ring finger. "I did."

Katniss doesn't strike me as a typical sixteen-year-old girl hoping to drag Peeta down the aisle behind her, so much as a shark with a toothache trying to put up with all the fish swimming around her.

But I end up saying. "Yeah, but not because most of them are about to head down the aisle themselves." I ignore Annie's confession because I already know what her feelings were. Are.

"Well, no," she concedes. "But that doesn't mean they can't dream."

I snort as something dawns on me. Mags echoes the sound in her sleep. "Annie, you're totally suckered by those two kids from Twelve. Confess."

Annie blushes. "I think it's romantic."

"If it's even true." I roll my eyes.

"What do you mean if it's true?" Annie pulls her hand away but I snatch it back. "Finnick, they saved each other," she says, like that explains how it's not an act. Then she frowns, her voice hollow. "They were able to leave the Games together."

We're entering dangerous territory here. But we know better now, how to navigate around the flashflood of pain and memory.

I steer the subject away from the Games. "I think I'll write them a love poem as a wedding present. Something like this." I clear my throat.

"_There once was a man from four,_

_Who everyone thought a…"_

"Oh dear," she groans, covering her face with her hands.

I blink. "What?" I say, since this topic has the desired effect. Sort of. "I thought you loved my poetry."

"I love everything about you…" She purses her lips as her sentence trails off.

My eyebrows arch. "But?"

"You might come on a bit strongly sometimes," she confesses.

"Fine," I huff. "They don't need anything from me anyway."

She laughs. "You're just sore because a couple of teenagers are getting married so soon when you had to wait years. It's your turn to confess."

What? I am certainly not jealous of a couple of teenagers just because they get to play house. I've had important things to do in the Capitol and Annie's fragile mental state to think of. I've got my reasons; otherwise I could have scooped Annie up years ago. But would she have been ready? No.

Still, it hits a nerve.

"They haven't set a date, so there's still a chance we can muscle in there first," I joke, trying to hide that it does bother me somewhat. "I wonder what they're waiting for?" I add with a thread of sarcasm.

"Besides the fact that they're sixteen or seventeen?" Annie replies in kind. "You can ask them when you head back for the Games." She tries to pass it off as a jest, but it falls flat. "I suppose they'll mentor for Twelve now instead of Haymitch."

That'll be the day. The sour old drunk doesn't like the job any more than most, but he's not about to bow out this late in the game. Our game.

But I remind her, "This is my last time mentoring, too. After this round it's Abel's turn. I'm retiring. We can finally forget about the Capitol and get on with our own wedding."

What the victors from Twelve may never know is that they've handed me opportunities with their success. One, Katniss has provided a face to our rebellion, giving us the boost of support we've needed for years. Two, in the shadows of their success the playboy from District Four finally lost a piece of his clout. Since Peeta and Katniss took over the limelight almost a year ago, the ladies don't care as much about the playboy. Which means _I_ can marry Annie – and act like it – without spoiling the ruse I've kept up since I turned sixteen.

"I can't wait." She sighs. "I won't have to think about all those women slavering over you."

I grimace as her thoughts keep pace with mine. Of course, Annie doesn't know the truth – or at least not all of it. She knows the part about those women not meaning anything to me. Knows that what goes on behind closed doors in the Capitol doesn't amount to a pebble's worth of gossip. There's more romantic mojo between Haymitch Abernathy and I than with any of those cougars.

What Annie doesn't know, however, is how useful those silly, shallow, and oh-so-talkative women have been. Of course, they don't know how useful they've been either. A few drinks, a little flirtatious dialogue, a smirk, and their secrets are mine. And their husbands', fathers', brothers', lawyers', pool boys' secrets along with 'em. The pool boys don't have a lot of useful information for the rebellion, but it makes for some entertaining stories to tell between slaughters when we're stuck in the Games Headquarters.

"Annie, you don't have to worry about them. Ever," I remind her. "I love you."

"I don't worry," she quietly denies.

I shift my position on the couch so I can see her better, and so that she can see me. "But?"

She ducks her head and a sheet of hair covers her face. "I still don't _like_ it."

I tuck the strands behind her ear. "Annie, I don't enjoy it myself, but the masses must be entertained," I say grimly.

"I know," she says. "Though I still don't know why."

My nostrils flare, despite how I try to keep the pain of not telling her the truth from showing on my face. I take a deep breath so I can answer evenly. "Someday it will all come together." I hug her to my chest, letting some warmth filter back into my voice. She clutches my shirt. "Chin up, Annie. It's almost over."

The program comes to a close, but the mandatory viewing isn't over. The anthem plays and President Snow appears on the stage with some kid dragging his feet behind him.

"Ugh. Isn't it early to announce the Quarter Quell?" Annie asks. Her eyes take on a stormy aspect.

"I wonder what joy they have in store this time," I mutter as the Snow waxes eloquent on the Dark Days. "This calls for beer."

Annie smiles a little. "You sound like your friend Haymitch."

"Oh yeah?" I tweak a strand of her hair. She's got so much she doesn't even feel the tug. "How would you know?"

"Because you tell me everything about him and Chaff and your other cronies." Her lips curl, like she can't tell if she's amused or horrified by their boorish behavior.

I shrug. "Well, maybe they're on to something. You want one?" I ask to be polite.

She shakes her head. As usual. What she doesn't know is that I tell her about Haymitch to keep her from becoming like Haymitch. Alcohol's one coping mechanism she doesn't need. I push myself off the couch and head for the kitchen, promising to be right back.

Our dinner plates and utensils are still scattered over the kitchen counter, since the meal was a hasty affair before the mandatory viewing. Ignoring the mess, I grab a bottle from the fridge and my eyes light upon the forgotten dessert. Annie's favorite.

"Hey, Annie," I call over the drone of the TV. "How about some cheesecake?" Now there's a coping mechanism I approve of. Carbs. "Annie?"

For an answer, I hear a sharp cry and the sound of shattering glass. What the hell? I race around the corner, wondering if Mags fell out of her chair and landed on the coffee table or something.

The beer falls from my hand.

"Annie?"

In the living room, Mags tries righting herself in the armchair, looking confused but unhurt. The TV screen is smashed in, however. Annie sits in a heap on the floor shaking. Her eyes are trained on the broken screen, but they're as empty and unseeing as a doll's.

Annie's checked out and I brace myself for what's to come.

First things first. Cuts bleed out from a few inches above her ankle down to her toes. I snatch her up, avoiding the glass fragments, and run to the bathroom where I stow the emergency kit.

"What happened?" I ask Mags when she hobbles in behind us.

Mags shrugs, saying she was asleep until she heard Annie shriek.

"Annie, what is it?" I ask, despite how useless talking is when she's like this.

I set her down in the clean tub, not sure if she's able to hold herself up in a chair…or the toilet seat. The blood pools around the drain lip until I remember to elevate the leg. Then I check the damage. The glass, fortunately, didn't cut deep enough to hit the major artery in her leg. Her foot is swelling, though. Broken, maybe?

"I need to call a doctor," I tell Mags, who's already handing me towels to wrap around Annie's wounds. I snatch an icepack from the first aid kit under the sink and snap it in half to start the chemical reaction that makes it cold. "Watch her."

Mags nods and eases herself down with her cane to sit on the side of the tub. She takes the icepack and presses it against the towel on Annie's foot.

I all but slide into the kitchen where the phone hangs on the wall. I get the doctor on and give him a clipped briefing. He tries asking me something, but I bark, "Don't ask questions; just get here."

I hang up on him and rest my forehead against the wall, pausing to take a deep breath. Sure, I could have asked the doc what Annie might have seen that would make her kick the TV in with her bare foot – how she got the power to do that I'll never know – but he's the last person I want to stall with questions. I call Abel instead. The phone rings for a minute before he picks up.

"What did I just miss?" I ask, not bothering with preliminaries.

"Finnick?" he croaks, sounding shaken. "Snow announced the Quell match…they're reaping us. Victors."

The air freezes in my chest. How is that possible? Becoming a victor has always ensured that we'd never go in again. And most of us are over 18. The Capitol has never reaped adults. But if that's what Annie saw, then no wonder she's triggered. I squeeze my eyes shut as a chilling horror spreads through my veins. I'm not afraid for myself – but for Annie, if they draw her name. It turns my gut, the instinct that I'm supposed to protect her and my ability to do so might be ripped from my hands.

"So that's it, then? Two of us are going back in?" I say into the phone.

"That's the idea," Abel replies, his voice grim.

I hang up the phone and stare at it, half-expecting it to ring again. Too many implications gutter through my mind, not just about Annie…there are other things, plans, people...this Quell throws everything up in the air. I reach for the phone only to pause midair. No. Calling anyone would be foolish right now; the Capitol might even expect it. I can't jeopardize my contacts and I need to stay focused on the here and now. On Annie.

When I get back to the bathroom, the blank look is gone from Annie's eyes, but her mouth is covered beneath both her hands. Silent sobs shake her body and it gets worse when she sees me. Mags strokes her hair and murmurs to her, but it won't do any good.

This is how it always begins. The immobilizing shock and eventually the hysterics.

Mags fixes me with her watery eyes. "Well?"

"Doctor's on his way." I slump against the door and exhale. Mags's eyebrows lift in expectation. "They're reaping victors for the Quell."

She stares at me until it sinks in, then she looks at Annie with sad eyes. District Four boasts three surviving female victors. The odds in their favor are not…impossible. But the thought reverberates painfully through my chest because I've known Marina, the other victor, for as long as I've known Mags. Even if we aren't as close, am I supposed to hope for their lives over hers? I kneel on the tiles by the tub, checking the compress around Annie's ankle. Questions and favors I can't ask hijack my brain. The alternatives make my stomach turn; I'm afraid I'll be sick if I don't control it.

I feel pressure on my shoulder. When I look up Mags gives me a solemn nod.

I shake my head, _I can't ask you to do that_. The thought makes my stomach roll.

She snorts, as if to remind me of who she is. Mags, the victor. Like me, she didn't win by accident. And in her bleary eyes surrounded by wrinkles, she's reminding me that _I'm _the whelp here – and that I'm not the only one who loves Annie. I'm not the only one who needs her to pull me away from that part of myself that's a cold-blooded killer. We need Annie to keep us human.

Mags isn't asking for permission, and between us, Annie's not going back.

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**TBC**

_Thanks to Ceylon205 for beta-ing! _


	2. KnifeGrey Sea

**Shameless Plug: **KenoshaChick is hosting a Hunger Games fanfiction contest called Countdown to Mockingjay. Check it out and submit your stories here, just remember to put the dots back in. You can also find the link on KC's profile:

http:/sites(dot)google(dot)com/site/countdowntomockingjay/

_Thanks to Ceylon205 for beta! _

* * *

**Chapter Two **

**Knife-Grey Sea**

_"Sorry you have to cancel your wedding. I know how devastating that must be for you." – Finnick to Katniss_

* * *

_Finnick's POV_

"Take my hand."

Annie slips her fragile hand into mine as I help her limp down the steep, narrow steps from the seawall to the uneven sand. Without the protection from the buildings to shield us, wind off the water whips her dress around her legs exposing her bandaged foot. It didn't heal right the first time and the doctor had to break the bones again. She shivers beside me. The expansive beach lies before us, pockmarked and weedy in low tide. Dangerous rocks that lie hidden at high tide now stand out like broken, barnacled teeth, bleached of color beneath the moon.

We press on.

Bells in the town toll the hour: midnight. Only half an hour ago I closed the door to Annie's house on the opposite side of the Circle and pulled her behind me through the sleeping town. We arranged this tryst when Snow announced the Quell. It's a mockery of our wedding, our plan to sneak off to the cave, then vow to love and protect one another forever. I hoped to take Annie sailing for our honeymoon.

_That plan's awash, _I think bitterly. My involvement in the Quell is absolute – and I haven't told Annie. So she took some convincing to end the engagement because she holds onto the hope that both of us will dodge the reaping. If not, could a few months of happiness hurt? she asked.

_Like hell._

I want to give in. The desire presses on me like lungs that are fit to burst in a man swimming under water too long. But my responsibility to her keeps my selfishness in check. I can't leave her a widow on her own – or worse, with child.

Now our time's up anyway, and all I have is the choice I made before I ever met Annie.

I'm grinding my teeth again. A bitter habit I developed in the last three months whenever I think about our thwarted plans, the Quell forcing the Resistance's hand. A sore jaw will ruin my smile, earning Agrippina's anger. _Well, screw it_. Let someone else feel the inconvenience for a change. I've had enough of it. No retirement. No wedding. No boat. And soon, no life, but most importantly, no Annie.

At least we can say our goodbyes with some degree of privacy, which is rather bleak as far as bright sides go.

"I dropped the blanket," Annie murmurs over the sound of the surf while I help her hobble along. Stopping, I scoop up the beach blanket and shake the sand out before cramming it into the hemp bag slung on my shoulder.

"Okay?" I whisper.

"Mmm hmm."

We pass grounded fishing boats drying on the sand. A mangy cat slinks across our path and dashes underneath the bow of an overturned skiff. From this point, the beach angles northwest for another three miles before the craggy arms of the bay reach the sea. Caves and treacherous alcoves riddle the black cliffs. Mags's grotto is safe enough at low tide. When the water's down, we climb through to a cavern that the waves cannot reach.

Mags found it years ago when she needed some peace. She shared it with me not long after my Games. It's located on the westernmost tip of the bay at sea level where the beach narrows to a point. Dangerous waves block the entrance at high tide. We'll leave long before the water rises again in the afternoon. By two o'clock when the ocean presses inland as hard as she can, I'll be speeding on my way to the Capitol and Annie will be safe at home.

That's the hope, anyway. I can't guarantee it. Though there's the slightest of chances that Mags and I can make it out of the arena alive, it doesn't matter to the rebellion if we do. Not unless the Mockingjay gets out too. I hope I've impressed upon Heavensbee the importance of looking out for Annie if I'm gutted while protecting that teenager. It's the least the rebels can do for me. Why would I want to die when I have so much to live for? Is Katniss's life worth more than mine? Does she deserve Peeta more than I deserve Annie?

I believe in the rebellion. No doubt. I don't know if I believe in their surly Mockingjay with her frilly dresses and choreographed smooching. It's a nice angle she's got going on, the young lovers routine. Too bad she's a rubbish actress. She'd never last a day in my shoes.

But she's the one they want. I respect Heavensbee and the others too much, even if I can't take her seriously. I'll do my part like I promised, though Katniss would sooner cut my throat than cash in with a Career unless Haymitch can convince her to trust me. Lord knows what he'll come up with.

Annie says, "You're very quiet tonight." She untucks her arm from mine and frowns thoughtfully up at me. Her hair drifts in front of her in the breeze. I adjust the bag on my shoulder so I can reach out and tuck a strand of it behind her ear, the better to see her face.

_I'm preoccupied with the end of the world and Katniss's favorite shade of lipstick._ So I look her straight in the eyes and lie. "I'm thinking about when I first met you, Annie. I mean, really met you."

That's what I meant to think about tonight, anyway. Not the rebellion.

Annie winces. "What a wretched evening. I felt so foolish."

I pull her along in a slow stroll so we can enjoy the moonlight while we can. "You were hiding in a closet." I muster a grin for her benefit. "Perfectly normal behavior."

…

"_More champagne, darling?" the District 2 mentor, Francine or Felicity, leads me to a table laden with drinks of all colors. I've seen this spread one too many times tonight. "We are celebrating your district's champion, after all." She holds the glass out to me. "To Allie." _

Again, it's Annie, _I silently chide. _

_I smirk at the woman holding out the half-filled flute glass to me, though a dull ache mushroom- clouds in the back of my head. Night after night of drinking – I'm beginning to feel pickled inside like Haymitch. Usually by this time in a Victory Tour I just long for a glass of milk. I need to escape before this woman inebriates me. I smile wider to disguise how desperately I survey the crowded ballroom. It's a mercy when Mags beckons to me with an impatient flick of her gnarled finger. _

"_No more for me, I'm afraid," I drawl, setting down the glass. I try not to frown at the slight tremble in my fingers. _

_Her fingers trail down my arm. It makes my skin crawl, but she mistakes it for something else. "Or perhaps a nightcap at my place?" she purrs in my ear. This is the part of the job I'm not supposed to let get to me, but I still wonder what sort of woman wants to hook up with a nineteen-year-old guy. She could be my mother – or anybody's for that matter. I have a policy against that. _

"_Alas." I lean toward her, letting a thread of remorse color my voice. "I have a train to catch at midnight or my friends turn into pumpkins and little grey mice." _

_Flossie's (or is it Flashy's?) face turns sour. "The old crone wants you back, I suppose?" my conversation companion pouts. Very unbecoming for a woman in her fifties, even if she is trying to pass for thirty. _

_I manage to pry myself away from the clutches of the current District 2 mentor, but not before she leaves nail marks on my arm. Out for flesh, as usual. But she better not have left a scar or I'll sue for damages, though I'm fairly certain my arms are insured by the Capitol now. _

_It takes some difficult wading to push through the room. Two's a wealthier district, and many of the citizens are here by choice, gobbling up the free food, enjoying the Capitol's hospitality. _

"_Miss me?" I ask when I sidle up next to her beside a pillar. The dancers block us off from the rest of the room._

"_You smell like a liquor cabinet," Mags snipes. _

_I feel like a liquor cabinet. Full of bees. "So you did miss me." _

"_Where's Annie?" Mags demands. Her voice crackles with age, but her words are clear. "I can't see hide nor hair of her." She snorts, muttering, "That's saying something."_

"_The girl does have a lot of hair." I drape myself against the pillar and wink at a couple waltzing by. "Was I supposed to baby-sit her?" I half scoff, half tease while picking off an unsightly hangnail. "I wish you told me earlier. I frisked Fanny for info all evening. What a waste." _

"_Felicia," she reminds me._

"_Whatever you say." I lower my voice and Mags leans in. "I can tell you for certain that Two is perfectly chummy with the Big C." _

_Mags rolls her eyes at the terminology, but she doesn't look surprised. Districts 1 and 2 have never shown much interest in revolution – or treason, depending on whose side you're on – what with being the Capitol's lapdogs. "You did waste your evening," Mags says. "But then, you would have done that anyway."_

"_So, Annie gave you the slip again, did she?" I ask, changing the subject back to our new victor and away from me and whatever vices the old love thinks I'm guilty of. _

_Mags shoots me a look. No matter how watery and faded her eyes appear, they're still sharp as spears. "I'm too old to chase around a sixteen-year-old girl, Finnick. I wasted all my energy looking after you. Anyway, you're much better at it."_

_I grin at the accusation. "That's the beautiful thing, Mags. You see, the women chase me." _

_Her glower rivals a cave troll's. Or Haymitch's. _

_Same difference. _

_Mags's tired eyes sweep the dance floor, probably tired of looking at me. She adds seriously, "The girl's probably hiding like she did in Seven." _

"_I'll find our elusive victor," I offer, although my mentor has more or less volunteered me. "I'm sure Annie's all right. Everyone's busy molesting me tonight. All the weirdos have probably overlooked her." _

"_That's why we bring you." Mags yawns, revealing a few remaining teeth and then she settles on a sofa in the corner for a nap. Figures. _

_Seeing that I've been dismissed, I saunter off. _

_In truth, I'm probably not the best candidate to locate Annie Cresta. For one, she locks herself in her bedroom on the train every second she can. I've hardly spoken ten words to her at meals when she's forced to come out. When I do say something she hides behind a napkin. Plus, as I try to maneuver the ballroom, men and women stop me to ask questions or flirt or slip inappropriate notes in my pockets. It takes all my brains to shake them off and get to work. _

_My quest begins under the buffet tables, earning me strange looks from the guests and servers. I find a man sleeping off his alcohol under the caviar, but no sign of Annie. Then I slip through the swinging doors of the kitchen, which is not a bad place to hide. All the untampered food's in there. The cook winks at me. I'd wink back, but I don't like his beard. I leave hastily. _

_The Cresta girl is not hiding in the cloak room, under the stairwell, in the restrooms – ladies' or gentlemen's. I checked both thoroughly, then splashed some cool water over my face. That champagne is a mist before my eyes. _

_Two barrel-chested Peacekeepers block my way upstairs. I don't waste my time. If I can't get up the stairs with my reputation, I doubt she'd worm her way through. The Clerk's office is locked tight. They barred the back entrance and the basement has some treacherous looking yellow tape sealing it off. Next to the void of disaster, there's a utility closet. I eye it with displeasure. Either she's in this closet or Mags needs glasses, because my now least-favorite victor has been in the ballroom this whole time. I'm sorely tempted to tell Mags that Annie needs one of those tracker chips reinstalled. If I can locate the girl first. _

_I open the closet door, hoping she's in here so I can be done with chasing all over the Justice Building. The light flickers on._

"_Excuse me, have you seen Annie Cresta?" I ask the young woman sitting next to the broom. _

"_No. Sorry," she replies. _

"_Ah. Thanks very much." _

_I shut the closet door and walk down the hall. Wait. I scratch my buzzing head. That wasn't right. So I turn around, returning to the closet and open the door again. The light flickers on in a familiar fashion. _

"_Miss Cresta," I say coolly. "Nice try." _

_Annie stares at me through large eyes blinking in the yellow light. They're greener than I remember. It must be the purple gown that pinches off high on her waist, flowing around her like a wave, that sets off the color. She perches on top of an up-ended paint bucket. Scads of wavy chestnut hair settle over her shoulders and down her back. _

"_Close the door, please," she begs. _

"_Fine." I step inside after a last minute decision. The door closes with a snick, and the light flashes off, leaving us in total darkness. I look up where the bulb should be, but it doesn't help me see any better. "Hm."_

"_I'd like to be left alone, if you don't mind." Her voice has the melodious quality of the District Four accent, as though our ancestors spoke in poems and songs in the land where they were born. It's a pleasant sounding voice that fills the dark space, even though I'm horribly annoyed by the inconvenience of searching for her the last half hour. _

"_Would you?" I ask, slipping into my Capitol affectation. _

"_Yes." Her voice is firm. _

"_How strange." I sniff. "No one's ever told me that before – certainly not when they're with me." _

"_Nobody's ever told you to go away?" _

_I change the subject. "Mags sent me to find you, so you'd better come."_

"_No, thank you," she says politely. _

_I drop the affectation now that she's thoroughly annoying me, and speak to her like she's my fractious kid sister. It's not hard to imagine, though I've never had any sisters at all. The feeling's real enough. "Look, Annie, you'll soon learn that Mags always gets her way, so you may as well come. And don't go hiding on every stop or it's going to be a Very Long Tour." _

_Silence. I release a sigh and reach for the knob. The light switches back on when the door opens a quarter. I'm halfway through when I look back to see if Annie's following. _

_She's not. Her face is buried in her hands, barely visible through sheets of her long, smooth hair. Even without her stylists' help it shines, but tonight her hair looks like it could win its own beauty pageant. _

_My annoyance ebbs away a little in light of her distress. The first year is tough on everyone. She's feeling victor's remorse, I'm guessing. Since Annie barely lifted a finger toward anyone in her arena, and Colm's death wasn't her fault, I'm not entirely sure why she'd experience it. _

_It's one of those things I can ponder over a glass of milk. When the champagne's worn off. _

"_So what set you off this time?" I ask, aiming for gentleness. Back in Seven, Johanna came on a little strongly and Mags found Annie huddled in the cloak room to avoid the prickly victor. _

_Annie hangs her head even lower, which I didn't think possible. Not without injury, anyway. "The servers keep offering me water," she mumbles into her hands._

_A glass of water rests by the long purple train pooling at her feet, eight ounces of innocent, clear liquid. I sigh. _It's going to be a long lifetime if that sets you off, Annie_, I think to myself. _

"_I can't go back out there and deal with it anymore," she moans. _

"_I'm afraid you're going to have to. This is the beginning of your life as a victor," I say, repeating exactly what Mags told me once. "It's not very pleasant, but it's what we've got." _

_Annie looks up at me through her fingers, eyes hard. "So buck up and deal with it, is that what you're saying? Here." She holds up the glass for me to take. "You drink it." _

_I purse my lips into a frown, but I do as I'm told. The water nearly reaches my lips when the smell hits. My brows knit together. Brine. _

_It's so subtle that most wouldn't even notice the scent, but I grew up on the sea. _

"_When the dam burst, it wasn't fresh water…not really like the ocean, either," she whispers to her knees. "It tasted like tears." _

_I hadn't heard that until now. I hold the glass away from me. The liquid looks cloudy now that I've disturbed it. _

_Her lips quiver as her eyes bore into mine. "Why would someone serve that to me?"_

_I shrug. Someone probably paid off the servers to torment her. It's not unheard of, Career districts taunting rival victors. But Annie didn't kill anyone from District 2. In fact, their Career beheaded our Colm, which sent Annie running for the hills in the largest display of overwhelming grief that I've ever seen on or off the Games. It made her a spectacle in the Capitol – and now in the districts, I realize. Mags told me how sponsors were impossible to find after that – a rarity for District Four. Nobody thought Annie would win the 70__th__ Games. And she wouldn't have. But then the tables turned suddenly in her favor, and she out-swam her opponents, included both tributes from Two._

_Well, I feel like a jerk and an idiot for assuming that she's not holding up under normal victor pressures. I never experienced any taunting. In fact, I've had a remarkable easy time of it, with my popularity in the Capitol. Who am I to judge? _

"_I owe you an apology, Annie," I tell her. "I spoke callously…It appears someone is taking his twisted sense of humor out on you. I'm sorry. I didn't realize." _

_Annie sits up straight, watching me curiously. "Do you mean that?" _

"_Yes." _

_She looks down at her hands. "Then I forgive you." _

_Well, that part cleared up easily. I feel emboldened to complete my mission. "I do need you to come with me, though. Mags will have my…er," I catch myself before I say head, given how sensitive Annie is about Colm. "She won't be pleased with me if I leave you here." _

_Annie shifts on the bucket but doesn't get up. She holds her arms around her stomach self-consciously. Then the corner of her mouth twitches and she looks up at me funny. "Are you afraid of Mags?" _

"_Absolutely terrified." I grin, thinking about the only woman who cares about me. "You don't know her like I do, yet."_

_Coming to a decision, Annie gets to her feet, brushing off the back of her dress. "I'm afraid of her too." There's a note of affection in her voice that I approve of._

_I step beyond the door, holding it open for her. She releases a heavy breath and eyes the threshold with trepidation. _

"_Just follow me. I won't let anyone harass you," I promise. "In another hour, Lavinia will escort us out of here and you'll be safe on the train again." _To hide_, I think._ _But secretly, I hope she'll consider talking to me instead. A mad girl who hides in closets can't be a worse companion than the sane strumpets with whom I'm forced to associate._

"_Follow you where?" she asks as I pull her out of the closet. She watches me amble down the hall. _

_I stop. Good question. Felicia's right about one thing: tonight is about Annie. We'll have to go somewhere nobody will bother her, but where she's within view of everyone. Eating's out. Somebody always wants to speak with you as soon as you've taken a large bite of food. I don't think she'd agree to making out with me on a couch, though that's usually a conversation killer, too. _

"_Dancing," I say, finally lighting on a possibility. Nobody interrupts you when you're dancing. Except to steal partners – I've done that a few times myself. But stepping on the intruder's foot usually sends a clear message to bugger off. _

_Annie groans. "My feet are killing me." She points at her heels. "I walk barefoot at home." _

_I chuckle. "Is that your only complaint?" I say, giving her my trademark leer. "I'm relieved. I thought you were groaning about dancing with me. My ego is very fragile." _

"_I wouldn't know it from looking at you," she replies._

"_I am full of surprises, Annie." _You have no idea. Neither do I, probably_, I think as I seize her elbow. I arch a perfectly shaped brow. "I contain multitudes." _

_A ghost of a smile flickers over her face. It falters when we enter the ballroom, which is still very full of guests. She balks. _

_I lean down to whisper in her ear. "Nobody's going to bite you." Well, at least not until we reach the Capitol. I can't make promises for anyone's behavior after that. All right, and Enobaria might bite too, but she left for the evening – to sharpen her teeth, no doubt. _

"_It's not that," Annie says. Her hand sweeps out in front of her, taking in the room. "They think I'm crazy."_

"_Annie, that's non—"_

"_I hear the gossip, Finnick. That's why they're putting salt in my drink, so I'll do something…like I did when…" She bites her lip and her eyes take on a dead aspect. _

"_Are you crazy?" I ask bluntly. Might as well clear the air. _

_Her eyes glint, coming back into focus. She purses her lips, then says, "If I am crazy, then aren't I the wrong person to ask?"_

_I experience the most genuine laugh I've had in a long time. Heads turn our way. It doesn't matter. Annie scowls at me with bruised pride, but I just pull her closer and maneuver us into the dancing crowd. _

"_Well, take it from me, Annie," I say, putting my hands on her waist. I jerk my head toward one of her stylists with a bloodshot third eye tattooed on his forehead. "Although it's unbecoming to leave your own party, if you enjoyed hanging out with these circus freaks, then you would be out of your mind. Avoiding them shows good taste." Then I whisper, "Just don't tell anyone I said that. I have a reputation to maintain." _

_Annie looks at me, nose wrinkled up like she's lumping me right in there with the freaks. I guess it would appear that way to her. Although I don't exactly appreciate the slight censure in her eyes, it's also rather refreshing. People generally get the wrong impression of me – in my favor – and I mean them to. Right now, the persona is all Annie knows of me, and she doesn't approve of the playboy if I'm reading her right. Well, to be honest, neither do I. _

"_You know," I tell her out of the blue, "I'm glad I found you in that closet." _

_Her head cocks to the side. "Why?" _

"_You're funny in a strange sort of way." Then I quickly add, "I don't mean crazy." _

_Annie looks aghast and I can see the wheels turning in her mind as some realization comes to her. "You know, you're a little odd yourself and not nearly as smooth in real life as you are on television." _

_Her comment takes me by surprise, but I quickly recover. "Do you watch me on television often?" I ask with a smirk. _

_She blushes and looks away. It throws me off. I'm used to women coyly batting their eyelashes and murmuring the same tired innuendos. Then I find myself blushing because I realize that Annie wasn't flirting with me at all, but stating an honest opinion. _

_Well. That's different. This might be the first time a girl has ever been sensible about me._

…

I didn't fall in love with Annie that night. It took nearly twelve mortifying months. Annie isn't mad, but her sorrow never really went away. I wasn't much of an empathetic 19 to 20 year old male. In our early friendship, both of us constantly misunderstood the other. I'd grown accustomed to the Capitol women and their behavior. Annie would be quite serious and I'd take her for a joke. Or assume she was flirting with me when she wasn't. Or worse yet, not recognizing when she was truly showing me affection. And she wouldn't believe that I wasn't the playboy she'd heard rumors about. Actually, I think in the end it was Mags who convinced her. Especially back then, I found it difficult to keep my persona and the real Finnick separate. Maybe the two are a lot closer than I'd like to believe.

Despite the obstacles, we did fall in love. The playboy and the mad girl. And now her lifeblood is worth more to me than my own.

And therein lies the problem. When you decide one person is worth dying for – you may be called upon to die for someone else as well.

Now I've vowed to give my life for some ill-tempered girl I don't give two straws about, and Haymitch didn't even have to twist my arm. But it's not really for Katniss, but for an ideal I adopted. It all comes back around to Annie. Maybe I'd be content to skim by on the Capitol's favor for the rest of my life, but she deserves better. They reaped her, messed her up, and left her to rot in District Four. She deserves to live in a world where the leaders will protect her, not reduce her to a pawn for their savage entertainment. So if I die to keep the symbol of hope alive, then maybe Annie will get what she deserves.

And there's the possibility that if the plan goes well, Mags, our friends, and I might make it out alive.

"What are you thinking about now?" Annie asks, interrupting my thoughts.

I scan the area for a mental alibi.

"No more clam digging for me," I reply, deadpan, as we cross a stretch of beach speckled with their siphons bubbling in the wet sand. "Shame. I always wanted to be a clammer when I grew up." I blow out an exasperated breath when I see the bruised expression on Annie's face. No matter what I say these days, I'm putting my foot in it.

"Don't say that," she pleads, stubbornly clinging to some hope that tomorrow won't be a complete disaster for us. "Maybe Lavinia won't call your name. Maybe she'll call…"

"Abel's? Seward's?" I ask sharply. "Don't say that, Annie. You'll only feel guilty."

She looks away and I know it's true. She isn't one of us. Annie wants me to live, but it tears her up when she admits she how badly she wants someone else to go in my stead.

I only feel that way about Mags. And Mags is the only guarantee I have that Annie will be safe. Annie doesn't say anything else, which is just as well. We've reached the cave.

The wide mouth gapes open to the western horizon. Stronger winds can be felt halfway inside. It's not always comfortable, but at least it's safe. The year Cecilia won, the entire Career pack asphyxiated itself by lighting a fire in a cave with limited airflow. That certainly simplified things for that Games.

We climb over tumbled, slimy boulders, careful not to fall or cut our hands on the mollusks clutching to the black rocks. The smell of brine-washed stone and sand mingles with the dead seaweed and fish caught in the cave's teeth.

Rummaging through the bag, I pull out an electric lantern, switch it on and hand it to Annie to light the way into the dark. Then I scoop her up and carry her over a shallow pool to keep the water from getting in her shoes and soaking the dressing around her foot. I've got my waders on while hers lie useless in her mudroom – too heavy for her injured foot.

I set her down again when the floor evens out. We duck between pillars carved out by the ocean a millennia ago. Our light shows the burnt orange stripes winding up and down the columns. We wend through a field of rocks; pass dark, empty alcoves, hatches, niches, and outcrops; making for the back of the cave.

We can feel it as soon as we're there – the sudden space – even if we can't see it in our tiny pool of light. The roof vaults high into the darkness and the uneven walls fall away on either side. Dry sand covers the floor, any rocks and debris raked out years ago. Annie hobbles a few feet and reaches, by memory, for a hook hanging in the center of the cavern to rest the lamp. Nobody knows who installed the chain in the cave ceiling. Maybe one of the first desperate victors yearning for a hideaway?

"Thirsty?" I ask, pulling out a canteen. She accepts the water and the blanket she dropped earlier. Even if it is June, nobody told the inside of this cave. "There's a pile of driftwood somewhere," I say, finding it difficult to think of anything else now that we're here. "I stashed it here earlier this week."

I make her sit while I find the cord of firewood in the dark. It doesn't take long to build the fire and soon the light and warmth spread like eager fingers into our hiding place.

"What's that?" she asks, pointing to a pile of bags and a cooler.

"Supplies," I answer. Wood isn't the only thing I stockpiled in here.

Annie looks a question that I don't deign to answer yet.

I sit down next to where she's huddled in the blanket. We each take a sandwich from the bag and eat them slowly. There's so much to say, but where to start explaining?

Annie's eyes shine in the firelight. It casts a warm glow over her features. She's grown into the most beautiful woman I know. "What are you thinking about?" I ask this time, mentally slapping myself for stalling. Coward.

Her fingers knot themselves on a corner of the blanket. "Tomorrow they'll call the male tribute first."

I shrug. "That's how we've always done it in Four." It isn't like that in every district, but here the boys tend to create a spectacle of themselves, jumping over one another when it's time to volunteer. And the Capitol thrives on drama. "So?"

Annie takes a deep breath. "If Lavinia calls your name, then I'm going to volunteer."

I stare at her, too appalled to keep a straight face. It never occurred to me that she'd plot something crazy like this, when Mags and I have been plotting the same thing all along. I pin her beneath my gaze. "Annie…no."

She reaches for my arm, clinging to me. "But if you go, at least the two of us will be together. I don't want to be alone." Her voice falters.

"You are not going back in," I growl, then instantly regret it when she startles. It's late and I'm tired. Sick with worry. Grieving, even. Angry too, for the way she's trying to put herself in danger when I'm trying so hard to keep her safe. I rub my eyes, trying not to see the color drain from her face.

"How can you be sure?" Annie asks hollowly.

I shrug, unable to meet her eyes as guilt washes over me. I feel the shame of a man who'd sell his own mother to gain his way. "Just don't do anything foolish tomorrow."

Annie's smart and she knows Mags and me too well. It only takes a moment for the truth to register. When it does, Annie throws the blanket off with a gasp and kneels in front of me so I can't easily avoid her gaze. "No, Finnick. You can't let Mags volunteer." Her eyes scan over my face desperately. "She won't stand a chance. They'll take her cane. Doesn't she deserve to die quietly in her own bed?" Annie whispers, "How can you be such a hypocrite?"

"Maybe they'll draw her name in the first place," I reason since I can't deny anything. "Maybe they'll draw someone else entirely." There's only Marina left, the forty-six year old woman who took over mentoring for Mags after the stroke. She isn't family like Mags and Annie, but she's a friend. No matter who they reap with me tomorrow, it's going to be hell.

Annie's cold hands cup my cheeks. "Finnick…"

My fingers slip around her narrow wrists, pulling her hands down to my lap. "Are we going to argue on our last night together?"

We're nose to nose, neither of us backing down. "They might not pick your name, either," she persists. In her dark eyes I see she's losing some of the hope she's been clinging to for three months. It's a false hope, but I hate watching it slip away.

"Maybe they won't," I say, although I know the truth: I have to go. I'm committed. I'm a hypocrite because I am volunteering if I have to – the one right I'm denying Annie. "But if they do, I made sure someone's looking after you." Her head dips to the side, my tone alerting her that I'm not being level. How to put this? I take a minute to gather my thoughts as much as possible so I can say what I need to say without revealing anything vital. "If something goes wrong at home…"

She pulls her hands away. "Finnick, what are you talking about?"

I must be losing my edge – I can smooth talk my way through a den of thieves but I can't make it through a sentence with Annie before I blow the whole thing. I drape the blanket back over her shoulders and make her sit next to me. "You know how it's been lately in the district? Talks of strikes at the fisheries and boats gone missing for weeks?"

Annie nods slowly, never taking her sharp eyes off my face.

"Things may get rough in the district and the Capitol during the Quell." I play it off as unrest generated by the anger Panem feels about losing their victors, rather than a full-scale rebellion. "I want you to hide out here, okay? Just for a few days." Until the rebels have control of the district. I point to the provisions along the wall. "All this is for you."

Her eyes widen. I can hear her breath coming out in short gasps and curse myself for upsetting her, even if there isn't any other way. She's just so fragile.

"What else aren't you telling me, Finnick?" she asks.

I laugh bitterly in the back of my throat. There is so much I'm not able to tell her. "You have to keep trusting me, Annie. I can't tell you for your own good." That's as close to the truth as I can come. "Promise me you'll take care of yourself."

Her lips press into a thin line, revealing her anger with me for keeping secrets. She's always been very patient about my spying in the Capitol, though she doesn't know that's what it is. It's clear she's reaching her capacity to deal with my hidden life.

"I don't go looking for trouble, Finnick." _Unlike_ _some_, she implies.

Yeah, well, I don't like to, either. And Annie won't need to, not if trouble comes looking for her first. If this rescue project of Heavensbee's turns sour and we're all implicated, Peacekeepers will come for her. I know that hiding out in the cave probably won't keep her safe, but I have to try for her sake. And if this plan's a bust, it's vital that she knows _nothing._ They'll still hurt her, but not for long when they realize they can't get any information out of her. I hope.

"You can trust Abel if you need anything," is all I say.

Annie cringes. "You expect me to trust him? He's disgusting." She never approved of him. Most of us overlook his drinking habits and appetite for young women, but not Annie. When I ask her about it, she says it's just a feeling she gets from him.

"I know you don't like him, Annie," I say. "But I've spoke with him myself."

…

_My hand falters for a third time before I'm able to knock on Abel's door. But there isn't anyone else I can ask. I know I'm going into the arena, which means Seward will mentor, leaving Abel at home in District Four. He's a schmuck and a creep, but he's all I've got. And even if he chases every other skirt in the district, he's never bothered Annie. _

_Abel answers the door wearing nothing but some low-riding swim trunks._

"_Finnick?" He blinks blearily at me. He's been drinking and it's barely lunchtime. He invites me in._

_I follow him down the hall to the kitchen where he turns and pushes long strands of sandy brown hair out of his eyes. "Want something to drink?" _

"_No thanks. I need to talk to you." _

"_Sure, brah." _

_I blow out steadily, finding the words. "The reaping is in a few weeks and – " Abel's face closes off. I rake my fingers through my hair. Maybe mentioning the reaping straight off isn't the best strategy. Too late. "Look, I need you to keep this to yourself. Can you?" _

"_You aren't planning anything rash are you?" he asks with a nervous laugh. "Because, man, I don't know if—"_

"_I'm volunteering, Abel." _

_His mouth snaps shut and I realize that's the last thing he expected to hear. Abel awkwardly shuffles his feet. "Oh." Then he smirks. "For a second there I thought you were going to ask me to volunteer so you could stay with Annie. Heh. Well. You always did like being the center of attention. I admire your guts, brah." _

_I stifle my annoyance. "Yeah." _

"_Then what do you want from me?" _

"_I need you to look after Annie while I'm gone," I say, trying to sound confident in my ability to succeed. "Until I get back." _

_He snorts at my bravado. "No problem." _

"_I'm counting on you, Abel. You can't let anything happen to her." _

"_Getting kind of cryptic, Finn. Seriously." He laughs. "Sure, I'll look after Annie. What could possibly go wrong?"_

…

"And you've got to take care of yourself. Abel will see that you've got everything you need," I tell her. "Make sure you're eating. Turn the lights on at night. Stay off your foot—"

"_Finnick!"_ she says, exasperated.

I hold her chin. "Promise me."

Her eyes look dully into my own. "I promise."

I'm losing her and I know it. But I'm feeling panicked and brainless, and say anything that comes to mind. "Don't kick the TV or anything else like that no matter what you see—"

"Stop it," she hisses. "Just stop. You're talking like your reaping is guaranteed."

It is. "I need to know that you're going to be okay. God knows I won't have time to do this tomorrow if Lavinia draws my name. Fifteen minutes is not enough time to say everything that needs to be said." Then I have to swallow back tears. "I love you, Annie."

Her expression melts into sorrow. Annie murmurs my name and I pull her to my chest. Her fingers lace in the shirt beneath my coat, holding on tight. My arms wrap around her waist and her cheek rests against my collar bone. The only thing I can do is hold her while she cries.

I'm crying too.

Then I feel the warm press of her lips against my neck and her hands lift to thread her fingers through my hair. I bend to meet her lips with my own. The blanket slips off her back when my hand smooths up her spine to rest between her shoulder blades. Then we're drowning in each other, oblivious to time and tide, letting the fear we feel for the other spill out into every touch.

_I don't know what I'll do without you._

We fumble to spread out the blanket and I lay her down by my side. Still holding her. Memorizing her. Praying for her with every kiss until we're too weary for more. I tuck her into my jacket to keep warm.

Annie's breathing evens out, but just when I think she's asleep, she gently rubs her cheek against my chest and asks, "What would it be like if it really was our wedding day?" she murmurs. "That's why we're out here. I want to talk about something happy."

I let the scenario play through my mind while I thread my fingers through her silky hair. She sighs contentedly.

"Well, we'd probably get to the cave and realize we forgot the candles." In District Four, lighthouses are pivotal to our industry and the safety of our crews. They are the most accessible symbol of well-being and trust that we have and so the bride and groom each use separate tapers to light a pillar candle, vowing to love, guide and protect the other with the vigilance of a lighthouse keeper. "We'd have to use driftwood. How tacky."

Annie laughs gently. "Just our luck."

The mirth in her voice leaves me feeling gratified. "Mags would have something to say about that too, you know. She'll be muttering under her breath the whole time, and making ribald comments."

"Doesn't she always?" Annie says through a smile. "Mags thinks we're hopeless together."

I snort – the old bird has no idea. Annie and I are like two lost children huddled together in this cave. "When the vows are done we'd send Mags home and then I'd finally get you to go skinny dipping with me." I pretend to inch up her dress. I'm unnerved when she doesn't stop me. For a moment I realize how paper thin our choices are. There's hardly any space between one choice or another – yes or no - and suddenly you're on the other side of the knife's point. I feel the same pressure, like a drowning man's aching lungs. I swallow, but my throat is too tight. I could take off her dress. I could have her. Looking in her eyes right now I know she'd let me - that she wants me to. I'm going to.

And then we'd have what? Solace for a night and emptiness forever after that.

The fabric slips from my fingers, spilling down over her legs, and we both sigh. I realize that Annie's been holding her breath, too. My hand settles on her hip where I've decided it will stay.

I rest my forehead against hers and force myself to keep talking. "I'd retire from mentoring so we could build that boat we've been talking about and sail as far as the coast guard will let us. Just drifting for months. And when we're tired of that we'll come back to Four. I'll begin my hobby as a clammer and you'll make dried seaweed pictures to sell to wealthy Capitol tourists who don't want them."

Annie's shoulders shake as she laughs. It breaks the tension. "You will not become a clammer."

"Then what?" I joke. "It's my childhood dream, Annie. You wound me."

"Somebody in the Capitol must want to hire a worthless young man to model…I don't know…cologne?" she says, mimicking my affectation. "You just have to pucker your lips like this." Annie crosses her eyes and makes kissy noises.

I scoff. "Brat."

"Diva." She laughs. "Well, what happens next?"

"Then we'll have kids, naturally." That's what happens, isn't it? Annie and I don't know a thing about them, but I guess we'd learn as we went along.

Annie smiles. "How many kids?"

"Oh, scads and scads," I say bravely, winking at her. "We won't be able to stop once we get started."

Annie looks up at me doubtfully. In the dim firelight I can tell she's blushing.

I plant a kiss on her nose. "They'll have your hair and my eyes. Your brains and my stunning personality." I sit up on my elbow. "They'll be named after ocean flora and fauna – like Urchin One and Urchin Two, Kelp..."

"Barnacle?"

I smirk and waggle my eyebrows. "Riptide…He'll be just like his old dad."

"Maybe we should skip having babies," she stammers through her laughter. "They sound like hairy little terrors."

"Don't say that, Annie," I tease as my arm cinches around her waist and pull her on top of me. Her hair curtains around us. "Mags needs grandkids."

Annie's expression grows pensive. "Where would we be without Mags?" she asks. Years of affection flood her voice.

I shake my head because I have no clue. I owe Mags too much, more than Annie will ever know.

She falls asleep in my arms soon after, though rest eludes me. I hope she's dreaming about a happier version of our life that she can cling to in the days to come. I worry it over in my mind, like the sea worries a stone back and forth and around in its waves until it's small and smooth.

If we didn't have to cancel our wedding and we had the wedding candles before us right now, what vow would I make to Annie to seal her happiness forever? so she'd know how much I love her? I hold her closer in my arms, feeling her chest rise and fall, and the warm of her breath on my throat. I lock this moment away in my heart.

I whisper a promise in her ear, though she'll never hear it, that one day I will be an honest man.

* * *

**TBC**

_Thanks for reading. The majority of the chapters will be told from Annie's POV from here on out. And remember, you can keep up with what's going on with the rebellion and rescue efforts by following _And So We Run Redux, Part II.

List of OCs:

Abel – D4 Victor, won in the years between Finnick and Annie's Games.

Agrippina – Stylist, she belongs to Geeky_DMHG_Fan

Colm – Annie's fellow tribute in the 70th Games. He was beheaded – in medea!verse – by a D2 tribute.

Felicia - D2 mentor, whose name seems to elude Finnick

Marina – D4 Victor, mentor who replaced Mags after the stroke. Will continue the post for the Quarter Quell

Lavinia – D4 Escort

Seward – Elderly D4 Victor, retired mentor who will return to the post for the Quart Quell.


	3. I Fall to Pieces

**AN:** Hi, this is unbeta'd and short. :D

**Chapter Three**

**I Fall to Pieces**

_I fall to pieces,  
Each time someone speaks your name.  
I fall to pieces.  
Time only adds to the flame. – Patsy Cline

* * *

_

_Annie's POV_

The dull ache in my shoulder eventually makes me sensible to the morning light seeping in through the curtains. Blue curtains, the ones I picked out when I moved in five years ago. I'm curled up around a feather pillow I've spent the night clutching. The posture leaves me sore, but I don't move. The faded scent of my perfume lingers on the fabric, so I know that it is mine. I'm too afraid to move.

I have no memory of entering the house or lying down in my bed. My reaping dress bunches up around my waist instead of my nightgown. I never sleep in my clothes anymore. Even on bad nights. Finnick always makes sure, waiting on the other side of my bedroom door while I change, when I'm a wreck and couldn't care less what the maid will think of my appearance. He's the only reason I have my dignity left.

My body feels like it's spinning as I grow more and more disoriented. Moisture wells up in my eyes like the frustration I feel. How did I get here? What day is it? Finnick?

The reaping.

I slide the white duvet down to my knees. _Keep it together, Annie. We've learned how to deal with this._ We. I don't know if I can manage on my own. I'm already falling to pieces.

Look around. Take stock of things. That's what we do when I'm upset. Try to make it one day at a time. Sit up.

The my parents' wedding portrait fell off the nightstand at some point. Last night? Maybe when whoever it was put me in bed?

Feet on the floor. Pick up the portrait. Now what?

Breakfast? I only have five eggs and a quart of milk left in the fridge. Finnick makes breakfast most days.

The mirror over the dresser reveals a grey-faced young woman with alarming hair. She frowns, looking at the tip of her nose rather than see what's reflected in her eyes.

I find clean underwear. My dress falls around my ankles. I step out of it. The maid comes at 10 a.m. to sweep and dust and straighten. The laundry's all over the floor – need to pick that up before she comes. Finnick's plants need watering. I can hire a girl to do that. Not that he'll care – he lets them wilt. Put on my bathrobe. Don't bother cinching it around my waist. Who cares.

In the closet, I reach for the first hanger to connect with my hand. Something to wear later.

Blue Boy jumps onto the covers and mews at me. Mags's grey cat. A stray that adopted her like she adopted us. He's mine now. He arches his back under my hand.

_Think of them like they're just down the road. Try to. Show Finn that he doesn't have to worry about you. _

Blue Boy follows me downstairs. I will the banister to explain how I made it up these steps yesterday as I smooth my hand down the polished wood. It offers me nothing.

The den is more accommodating. Abel lies spread-eagle on my couch with dirty dishes all around him, and an empty liquor bottle he certainly didn't find in my home. I hastily close my robe and cinch it tight. Blue Boy licks the congealed yellow yolk from a dessert plate. How many eggs are left now?

"Abel?" His name comes out in a rasp and I have to repeat myself and jostle his shoulder before it wakes him. He sits up clumsily, grinding his firsts into his eyeballs.

"Is it afternoon already?" he asks stupidly, despite how he's blinking in the sunlight.

My stomach drops. "What? It's only morning."

He points to the clock over the mantelpiece. "Four o'clock."

I sit down on the loveseat as another dizzy spell set in. I never sleep this long. I've missed breakfast and the maid. She'll be sour-faced when I see her again, banging around the house to let me know that she's had to pick up the laundry off the floor so she could clean.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, messaging my temples.

Abel's head tips to the side. "I brought you home after the reaping. Don't you remember?"

No.

"I helped you into bed and you've been there since yesterday afternoon." He clears his throat. "You were pretty upset, so I stuck around."

He doesn't have to explain any further. It all comes together – the dizzying disorientation, lapses in memory, exhaustion. Shame licks over me like flames, burning me up. I should have held it together yesterday. After all this time, I'm still succumbing to my fears. Walking nightmares, Finnick calls them. I bite my hand to keep the pain somewhere other than my heart.

Finnick's going to worry – I proved how weak and hopeless I still am. And to have to rely on _Abel._

Abel, who's looking at me with a mixture of pity and like he's creeped out by me. I have to turn away from him.

_Why can't you do better, Annie? Why aren't you over this? Why are you crying, safe at home, when he's going to his death along with Mags?_

"Man, sorry about the mess," he says, and gathering the dishes.

I don't care. I just want him out of my house. "I'll clean it up." I pick up the bottle, but he takes it from me.

"I got this," he insists. "I'm here to help."

Help I don't want. "Don't worry about me. You have other things to do."

Abel combs his fingers through his long hair. "Actually, the televised opening ceremony will be on in an hour. Might as well stick around, you know?"

My heart sinks. He's going to stay through the whole thing. I'd much rather be alone. I don't want to share the hour with anyone. The last times I get to see Finnick.

But I suffer it. Abel washes his dishes and makes dinner with groceries he brought from his home, while I shower and change out of my bathrobe.

I barely touch my food. My throat can't seem to take it in. Abel has no problem though and when it's time he turns on the TV like he's waiting for the weather report.

The anthem's already playing and the first chariot leaves the – I shudder and Abel gives me a concerned glance – the stables beneath the Remake Center. I slept through the recap of the other district reapings last night, so I don't know who else is going into the arena. I watch eagerly as each new chariot makes its way toward City Circle to see who Finnick and Mags are up against.

When the fourth chariot pulls out of the bend in the track, the camera pans in for a full view of Mags. My organs lurch as my mind instantly flashes back to the horrible, crushing pain and helplessness my mind's been kept buried all day – first of hearing Finnick's name drawn from the reaping ball and then when Mags took my place. I wish I could pluck her right out of the TV and shake her and hug her.

Then my knuckles turn white as I clutch the couch cushion. _What have they done to her?_

"Eugh." Abel shudders. "I'll never look at a woman's breasts again."

_Serves you right_, I chide. But honestly, what was Agrippina thinking? I suppose nostalgia won out over sense when she decided to use Mags's original costume from her Games over sixty years ago. The seashell bra just isn't…her chest has seen better days.

The camera pans out to include Finnick, who's holding Mags up. At first I'm certain that he's naked, but as the camera focuses, I see the gold net knotted low around his waist. I could strangle Agrippina for debasing him in front of the entire country. The screams of the Capitol women drown out any other sound, making my blood boil. And yet, there's an odd, warm coiling feeling in my stomach which has nothing to do with jealousy and _everything_ to with untying that knot…

"What is this? Beach toga party?" Abel gripes. "Like we need to witness any more leering from his fan girls."

The camera zooms in on Finnick's face. The other victors have been solemn, brooding, or blank and confused. But he can't help himself – he smirks.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Abel's face twist with loathing. But it's gone before I know it, lost behind a sour smile. And even though the black look on his face causes my chest to tighten with anxiety, I am not surprised to see it. It's not the first time.

Finnick believes that I dislike Abel because he's loose and uses what little celebrity he has to lure women. I could never tell Finnick the truth: the degree to which Abel covers up how much he despises Finnick. Their victories came close together, Abels' just two years after. But Finnick is the prodigy. The golden boy. It's Finnick, not Abel, who receives the invitations back to the Capitol, the endless gifts and favors, and the obsessive interest.

Abel's never gotten over the way he's been thrown aside and forgotten, but he does his best to cover it up when he's with Finnick. It's sickening the way he cringes and flatters and wears a mask of friendship. Abel's two-faced behavior makes my skin crawl – especially since it works. Finnick's always so sharp, and yet, when it comes to Abel's jealousy, he's oblivious. I tried to tell him once, but he laughed at me.

The ceremony ends far too soon – with three more days before I see his face again.

**…**

Blue Boy dashes over my stomach, waking me up. I see his grey body slip off the mattress and hear him scuttle under the bed.

_Abel_.

Sure enough, the sound of the front door closing echoes up to the bedroom. Blue Boy doesn't like him much. I can't tell if he picked that up from me or if it's his animal instinct.

"Annie?" he calls. I roll over and try to ignore it, sinking down into the comforting sheets. "Annie! I know you're here."

I should have locked the doors. Finnick would have thought of it. I gently pull the collar of his shirt up to my nose. His scent still lingers on the pillows and sheets and his clothes. Sleeping here, it's the happiest I've been in five days. I wish I had thought of it sooner.

Last night I needed something to bring me closer to Finnick. Despite the documentaries, re-airing old interviews, and the training score announcements on television constantly flashing his face and relaying his voice, I've never felt further away. Five years of Games and tours and invitations have not prepared me for this separation. I feel homesick and I'm the one at home. His home. With a bag of clothes and Blue Boy.

Finnick scored a ten last night and Brutus scored an 11. I can't believe he scored lower than Brutus. The man has to be in his forties, at least. Not old, but not in his prime – not like Finnick. And yet, I remind myself to be grateful. At least he wasn't singled out like poor Katniss and Peeta. 12 – nobody has ever received a perfect score. What did they do to receive them? Perhaps Caeser will comment on it tonight during the interviews?

The bedroom door swings open. Reluctant as I am to see Abel, I don't like the idea of turning my back on him. I roll over to face him. He's wearing board shorts and nothing else. A package is tucked under his arm.

"Annie, I've been looking for you all morning," Abel says irritably. He's been a constant presence all week. Suffocating me. I don't regret inconveniencing him. "Should have known you'd shack up at Odair's."

Abel's puffy eyes take in the room. I'm curled up in Finnick's bed, wearing his shirt, and I can tell by the look in his eyes that he's speculating on how often I've slept over when Finnick was home. I bristle. It's really none of his business what Finnick and I have or haven't done.

"This was waiting on your porch." He lays the package on the foot of the bed.

I sit up. "I didn't order anything," I tell him. "It must be another gift for Finnick that didn't make it here before the reaping. The postman probably—"

He slides the box closer to me. "Your name's on the label."

So it is. My heart skips a beat when I recognize the penmanship. Finnick's never sent me anything from the Capitol before, and I've never heard of tributes being allowed to mail things. Perhaps victor tributes have more privileges.

Or maybe it's just Finnick.

The tape tears my fingernails in my haste to see what's inside. Abel offers to find scissors, but I ignore him. Eventually I win against the packaging. Lifting the flaps, I see a small, plain envelope resting on top of delicate tissue paper.

I open the envelope and blush – it contains a postcard that must have gone on sale on the streets of the Capitol: Finnick posing against a beach scene in his net costume. I stare at the photo manipulation (they certainly don't have beaches like that in the Capitol) and try not to blush more.

Abel grunts. "That's nice. Pictures of himself."

"It's a joke," I tell him, then flip the card over to the other side.

_Take care of this for me, will you? Chin up, Annie. _

_Until I get home, _

_Finnick_

My throat constricts so tightly with the sudden rush of need that I can hardly breathe. I can't even move to unwrap the thing he wants me to look after.

"That's bold. He's buying things for his victory," Abel says. "Odair hasn't even entered the arena yet."

"Which means Finnick hasn't lost yet," I choke. If he isn't giving up, how can I?

"Of course." He smiles patronizingly. "The odds have always been in his favor, haven't they."

I hate the finality in his voice. But I know Finnick. He won't give up and even though the judges gave him a lower score than Brutus, _I _know that he's more capable.

"Though I have to wonder why someone who banks on coming home so much would plan to volunteer in the reaping."

"What?" I gasp at the accusation. "Why would Finnick choose to volunteer? We were getting married; he'd never choose to leave me." Abel's eyebrows knit together. We've never told anyone we were engaged, though our relationship is no secret in the district. "I've never heard anything so ridiculous in my life."

Abel's face smoothes into a mask of innocence. "But, Annie, he told me himself he'd volunteer if his name wasn't drawn. He said it the day he asked me to watch out for you."

It can't be true, but the blood drains from my face anyway. "I don't believe you," I murmur.

"Annie, why would I lie? I'm not gaining anything by it." His face twists like he's bitten a lemon. "I'm sure Finnick had a good reason. He always liked being the center of attention. I bet it's tough for him to make room in the limelight for those kids from Twelve."

"You don't know Finnick," I say wearily, not wanting to have this discussion with him. "He doesn't care about any of that."

Abel snorts and shakes his head. "If he doesn't like it so much, why does he choose to go back to the Capitol time and time again?"

I'm having trouble focusing and sit on the bed. We're engaged. If Mags volunteered to keep me safe, why would he go out of his way to leave me behind? He wouldn't. He'd try hard to stay so that we could get married.

One poisonous truth stands out. Mags volunteered, Finnick told me she would. They planned that – they could plan for him to do the same. But for what purpose? And why not tell me?

_Why, Finnick? _

"Maybe he knew you'd take it hard. That's kind of low, though, choosing glory over your girl." Abel's hand rests heavily on my shoulder. "Just remember that I'm here for you, Annie."

I shrug off his hand and fold away the tissue paper in the box. Abel whistles. I lift out a white silk dress. It spills toward the floor and I stand to see it better. The dress is shaped like a lily bent to the ground by dew drops. Beautiful.

"I swear I've seen that before," Abel says, running the fabric between his fingers. I want to yank the dress away from him.

"You have." I swallow, checking the small, white tag sewn into a seam. It has a large, gold C embroidered on it. "On Katniss Everdeen."

Finnick sent me a wedding dress.

* * *

**TBC**

_Well, Cinna did have all those dresses left over. ;) Thanks for reading!_

List of OCs:

Abel - D4 Victor, won in the years between Finnick and Annie's Games.

Blue Boy – Mags's cat

Agrippina – Stylist, she belongs to Geeky-DMHG-Fan

Colm – Annie's fellow tribute in the 70th Games. He was beheaded – in medea!verse – by a D2 tribute.

Felicia - D2 mentor, whose name seems to elude Finnick

Marina – D4 Victor, mentor who replaced Mags after the stroke. Will continue the post for the Quarter Quell

Lavinia – D4 Escort

Seward – Elderly D4 Victor, retired mentor who will return to the post for the Quart Quell.


	4. Resistance

**AN:** Normally I update Redux and Fannie alternately, but I want the action in this piece to catch up with the action Redux, so some double posting will ensue. ;)

* * *

**Chapter Four**

**Resistance**

_Is our secret safe tonight,_

_And are we out of sight,_

_Or will our world come tumbling down?_

_Will they find our hiding place;_

_Is this our last embrace, _

_Or will the world stop caving in? – Muse, Resistance

* * *

_

_Annie's POV_

The rumble jars my bones. The reek of burned powder and oil fills the air like the plumes of black smoke from the factories and wrecked fishing trawlers.

A scream hammers against my clenched teeth. I feel exposed on every side and confused by the chaos in the town. What compelled me to leave the safety of Finnick's house?

Blue Boy yawls and twists in my arms. His ears lie flat against his skull in fear.

"Hush, Blue. Stop – _ouch._" I struggle to keep him in my shaking arms and the bag from falling off my shoulder. Hot tears of frustration threaten to spill out. "I'm trying to save you. Darn – cat!"

He hisses, reminding me I've never taken care of anyone. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't even know what's happening in the district. It's in his eyes: _stupid, useless. _

Another explosion flares near the cannery, the shot resounding through the port. Why have they attacked that factory? My father worked there before he died and my mother would take me with to bring his lunch. My nose wrinkles at the memory of the stink.

The rioters must have reached the boiler room – the factory goes up in flames and bursts of shrapnel. The sky turns white and orange. Waves of heat roll through the street, pinning me to the pole.

It stuns me.

_The sky exploded. _

The image of Finnick's arena spirals through my mind. Suddenly canons were firing and the last thing I saw – Finnick blown off his feet and not getting up. Bursts of light.

The same explosion that ripped through the arena's force field feels like it's ripping through me. Blood roars in my ears and my vision narrows.

_Finnick._

_Mags._

_Colm. _

Finn. I really believed he'd come home. The squeezing in my chest reminds me he isn't. The dress in the bag is my formal protest against what I saw with my own eyes.

"_Things may get rough in the district and the Capitol during the Quell."_

More explosions. The only spot of darkness in the port, ironically, is the lighthouse. The Custom House burns and the wharves seethe with frenetic energy. Blue Boy bolts from my arms and I lose sight of him dashing into an alley. He doesn't come when I call his name, my voice lost within the shouts and gunshots in the heart of the district.

The people are trying to tear this place apart. Why? Because of the Quell?

I don't know the answer. I don't understand, but it seems like a sleeping beast rose up after Katniss fired that shot – not all of a sudden – but like it's been waiting.

_I am crazy_. What I'm seeing is a mindless riot lead by frustrated fishermen, not a beast with a mind of its own. Not something bigger than District Four. _You're chasing shadows again, Annie_. That's what Finnick would say. _Snap out of it._

My thoughts skitter away in a million directions. For a moment I consider going after the cat, but my body rebels. He's Mags's cat and I can't even take care of him, much less myself. I cling to a lamppost and suck in the humid air in great, long pulls. My head feels too light, and my hands and knees shake. I can't run this way.

Rioters congest the main quay passing through the square and leading to the wharfs, but the alleys and little lanes between rows of narrow stone houses will lead me to the beach if I can force my limbs to cooperate.

I promised Finnick I'd do this. I have to keep my word even if…even if he'll never be around to find out.

Pushing myself off the warm iron I pull Finnick's blue wool coat tighter around me, despite the humidity, and shoulder my bag. Focus on taking one step than another. Walking is better than standing still, though running would be best.

I stagger uphill, until the lane curves beneath the cliffs and then downhill toward the beach.

The rain we received left the pavement slick and seawall steaming. Darkness covers the stretch of beach below – all the light, flares, and fires are centered by the square and the wharfs, down several miles from our cave. I can't hear the bells over the rioting and I wonder if anyone will bother to ring them.

I half scramble, half slide down the sea wall steps, jarring my foot. It's mostly healed now, but sensitive. I land on my hands and knees and they sting from landing on bits of gravel from the wall. The canvas bag falls by my side. Thinking about the dress inside makes me sob at the bottom of the steps like a broken doll who'll never be able to pull herself together.

But I have to – I have to take care of Finnick's gift, the dress. I'm letting damp sand get in the bag. Braced against the rough stone wall, I stagger to my feet and ignore the pain.

Wiping my nose, I try to slow my whirling thoughts, to plan for myself. I will follow the same route that Finnick and I took just ten days ago, past the skiffs and clam beds, to the furthest spine of coastal mountains. I regret not saying more that night, and I wish I hadn't let him brood so much. I wish I'd brought the candles and forced him to marry me. A shaky, sniffling laugh escapes my lips. I let him boss me around too much.

I'd give anything to let him boss me around right now. He'd tell_ me_ to stop brooding and get a move on. _Time, tide, and trendsetters wait for no man_.

_Move faster_.

It feels like the cliffs forming the cove arm move backward into the shadows with each step I take toward them. The surf fills my ears like a rough pulse. It always sounds louder at night.

The rock face curves toward the sea, forcing me northwest. I see the skiffs sooner than I expect, drifting in the water, tugging on their mooring lines. It makes my heart beat faster. They're too close to the cliffs. When I pass them by, I see it. The clam beds are covered in seawater.

_I'll wade_, I tell myself. _I can do it._

I challenge the odds. The cold brine washes over my legs, soaking my skirt and the hem of Finnick's coat. Black waves beat the shore behind me in a chorus of crashing growls. My foot catches on a sink hole and I feel the strong tug on my body, though the drink barely covers my thighs. My bag clutched high above the water, I pull my leg out.

The ocean rolls in between me and the cave, pushing me toward the beach, towing me deeper as it rises and falls. Even if I were strong enough for the tide, the water will fill the cave's mouth long before I can get there myself.

My face is damp with spray. I feel cold. _I tried, Finnick_.

With my way blocked by the sea, I have to turn back the way I came. Over the beach, up the sea wall. My foot throbs from falling twice. Even without the pain I keep a slow pace. Peacekeepers and rioters swarm the streets, pushing into the rest of the town like the tide pushes into the bay. It's all I can do just to avoid them. Ducking behind a pile of ragged hemp and moldy nets discarded by the thatcher, I avoid a gang of sailors who got their hands on some of the Peacekeepers' guns – they don't look like they'd discriminate before shooting. I can't focus on anyone's face long enough to recognize them. Just blurs of grim determination that makes me tremble. I know that I have old schoolmates and neighbors who are fighting, but it feels unreal. _Like Careers_.

Hot moisture fills my mouth in warning. I retch. My stomach curls into itself. I throw up in the hemp until there's nothing left to come up and I'm dizzy.

Still, the people flash past me toward the Justice Building, next on the docket to burn.

I need to find Abel – I don't know what else to do. I can barely think for myself, relying totally on the directions Finnick left with me before the reaping – to trust Abel.

Finnick had no idea what he asked of me. And given the chaos in the streets, maybe Abel isn't even home. Though I certainly doubt he'd lift a finger against the ones who have maintained our affluent lifestyle as victors.

Leaving the nets behind, I climb on top of a garbage can and scramble over the stone wall that blocks off the lawns of the Victor's Village from the town.

A cry of pain escapes my mouth when I land on the other side. It goes unnoticed. The lawns are empty. I remember that Abel and I are the only victors left. It isn't a comfort.

I test my bad foot, but it gives way beneath me. I'll have to crawl on my hands and knees over the grass. Abel lives in the second house on this side of the circle, thankfully. I only have to push through a low hedge between his lawn and Marina's.

I manage to drag myself to Abel's back door and pull the bell he insisted on having installed, the kind they have on ships to mark the changing of the crew.

"Who's there?" he calls cautiously from behind his door. I feel a rush of relief that he's home, despite my earlier feelings. I don't have a plan C.

"Annie." My voice sounds foreign to my ears. Ragged. Mousey.

The door bursts inward "I've been running all over the circle looking for you." Abel rushes out onto the stoop. He's checked by my sopping, sweaty, and scratched appearance. "You look…awful." He holds out his hand and lifts me to my feet. I have to lean on him, and not for the first time, wish he'd wear a shirt. "Hurt your foot again?"

I nod. "Trying to get to the caves."

"That was foolish," he replies as he helps me hobble into his kitchen.

"Finnick told me—"

"Well, that should have been your first clue. He's got no sense." Abel grouses while he sets me down in a chair by the table. "Let me take that for you." He reaches for my bag, but I hold it tight in my arms.

"I'll keep it with me, if it's all the same," I snap.

"Suit yourself," he mutters, picking up a sweaty glass filled with something clear. "Want something to drink? I've got water, tea…uh, other stuff."

I look at the way my hands are still shaking and know that tea isn't going to be of much use. I need something stronger than chamomile. "What are you drinking?"

He scratches his head. "Uh, I don't think you want any of this."

"Why, what is it?"

He swirls the liquid around in the glass. "Vodka."

Finnick always talked about his friend Haymitch who had a penchant for white liquor. Although I'm sure he meant for me to take the stories a different way, I feel certain that there might be something in Haymitch's methods. At least when one needs something quick. "I'll have that."

Abel balks, then purses his lips in a condescending fashion. "Are you sure?"

I show him my hands. "I need help with this."

He squeezes my trembling fingers in his and grins. "I don't think your hands will slow down, but it'll help whatever else ails you." He grabs a bottle from his freezer, then looks at it with a frown. "I'll just put lots of club soda in it. For the uninitiated."

He turns his back to me while he mixes the drink, then slides the full glass across the table. I take a deep breath and list all the reasons why I need this drink. Really, I'm telling Finnick why I need this drink, but he's not here. If he was, I wouldn't need this at all.

The first sip clears my sinuses. The second one leaves a burning trail from my throat to my empty, queasy stomach.

The third one isn't so bad.

…

"Listen, brah, you're positive that he's not on his way here?" I hear Abel's troubled voice filter in from the foyer. "No possible chance?"

"We told you before, _brah, _don't worry about the rebels." The other man's voice is deep and reminds me of a piston. "They're too busy running away with their tails between their legs."

"Okay, okay," Abel stammers. "It's just, I know this guy. He'll ride my ass into the ground if he finds out."

"He's as good as dead." Another man laughs. "Nobody's coming after you."

_Who are they talking about?_

I lift my head from the table as the conversation trickles through my foggy head. It doesn't make any more sense when I'm sitting up. I don't even remember why I'm here. My tongue feels huge and heavy in my mouth. It tastes like...like… pickled herring.

"She's in there. Let me go in first and smooth the way." Abel's voice sounds like it's behind the French doors separating the kitchen from his den. One of the doors opens and he slides through. "Hi, Annie," he says. "Wow. You look skunked."

"Skunked?" I mumble. I cradle my head in my hands. "What's wrong with my head?"

"I only gave you two glasses, weak sauce."

"Who's here?" I ask.

Abel laughs nervously. "Uh, listen, Annie. I know how this looks, but you need to trust me."

I gaze at him through bleary eyes. I'm tired of people telling me to trust them. Lately it hasn't led to anything but misery. "What do you mean?"

He folds his arms over his eternally bare chest and stares at his sandals. "Uh. The district's pretty rough right now, so the authorities are offering you safe transport."

"Me?" My brows knit together. I feel like Abel's jumping ahead of me somehow. "Transport where? To the cave?" Even if they let me use a boat we'd just smash against the rocks. My brain clears a little and something strikes me as odd. "What authorities? What about you?"

Abel clears his throat and the two men step inside the kitchen. Their white uniforms send a cold chill down my spine.

I try to stand up, but the table and chair won't let me. "Peacekeepers?" I gasp. It doesn't sound quite like it should when it comes out of my mouth. Sloppier. "Abel, what have you done?"

He frowns like a disappointed father. "It's for your own good, Annie."

* * *

**TBC**

_Thanks for reading, and especially to those who took the time to review. I appreciate it! And special thanks to Ceylon205 for beta. _

List of OCs:

Abel - D4 Victor, won in the years between Finnick and Annie's Games.

Blue Boy – Mags's cat

Agrippina – Stylist, she belongs to Geeky-DMHG-Fan

Colm – Annie's fellow tribute in the 70th Games. He was beheaded – in medea!verse – by a D2 tribute.

Felicia – D2 mentor, whose name seems to elude Finnick

Marina – D4 Victor, mentor who replaced Mags after the stroke. Will continue the post for the Quarter Quell

Lavinia – D4 Escort

Seward – Elderly D4 Victor, retired mentor who will return to the post for the Quart Quell.


	5. We Hope You Enjoy Your Stay

**Edit**: Gasp! I botched the D4 escort's name. Up until now, I've called her Lavinia. I blipped in this chapter and put in Alexandria, who belongs to Geeky, forgetting that I already had a name picked out. :D So, I've fixed that up.

**Chapter Five**

**We Hope You Enjoy Your Stay**

_We hope you enjoy your stay._

_It's good to have you with us, even it if it's just for the day._

_We hope you enjoy your stay. Outside the sun is shining._

_It seems like heaven ain't far away. – The Killers, Enterlude.

* * *

_

_Annie's POV_

The Peacekeeper, Paulus, yanks the bag out of my hands and rifles through the contents. It takes mere seconds because I only packed one thing. Tissue paper falls to the floor in torn sheets.

"A dress?" He snorts and holds it out to his fellow officer, Remus, with the piston-like voice. He inspects the dress with more diligence. I cringe at the way he's pawing it. Across the kitchen, Abel rolls his eyes. He wouldn't put much stock into a wedding dress, and after what he's done, to care that it's from Finnick.

The label catches Remus's eye. "One of Cinna's designs." He turns to me. "You were an associate of his?"

A what? "I've never met Cinna before in my life."

His black eyes narrow. "But you admire his work?" The way he words things makes me feel like I'm walking into a trap, but I don't know why. I have nothing to hide; of course I love Cinna's work. Who doesn't? Especially after his stunning job on Katniss's wedding dress.

"No, I never have. Finnick gave me this as a…present." The instant that comes out of my mouth I know I've told them exactly what they wanted to hear. I snatch the dress back while they're busy giving each other glances heavy with meaning. What has Finnick or Cinna done?

"I see," Remus says. He lets me refold the dress and wrap it in the torn tissue paper. I pack it away carefully, knowing that it'll wrinkle. It doesn't matter. The dress is still perfect.

…

Paulus escorts me onto the train. Behind us, Abel throws a fit.

"You didn't say _I _had to come," he whines, trying to pull free from Remus. "I brought you the girl, now leave me alone."

"It's for your safety, mate," the officer smirks. "Just like you told _her_."

"I'm fine on my own," he barks. "I'm a _victor_, remember?"

A vicious smile crimps Remus's face. "That's the problem. Now get on the train."

My escort ushers me into the nearest compartment, the dining car. I fall into a seat along the wall. The smell makes me dizzy. The plush furniture, the clean carpet. I can smell the polish they used on the wood. Each one triggers memories of times I've spent on this train and the horrible fear I felt while traveling to the Capitol. My memories are always strongly tied to scents.

Remus pushes Abel into the dining car. He slouches into a chair beside me. I try moving to another, but he grabs my hand. "Look, Annie, I'm sorry. Let me explain."

"Don't you talk to me, you double-crosser," I hiss. He drops my hand like it's a Portuguese man of war and lets me choose a seat across the room.

The Peacekeepers stand by the doors on either side of the room, not watching us, but not unaware of us either. Are we prisoners or refugees? Whichever it is, Abel did not expect to become a part of it. But what have I done, or what happened, that the Capitol's bulldogs would want me? The Capitol left me alone for five years, I can't imagine that I've received some summons or invitation. I don't have fans in the city. No old sponsors that feel sentimental.

Finnick has…had…very sentimental sponsors. Mostly women. I tore up their letters – those were the worst part. Not the presents and flowers – he never bothered with those. But words are more powerful.

I can't make any sense of what's happening to me right now and feel myself pulling away. Something drips on my arm. A few more teardrops fall before I try to staunch the flow with my hands. It just makes my cheeks wetter.

An attendant bringing drinks stops to give me a tissue. The Peacekeepers don't move a muscle, but their eyes are on Abel's slouched figure. There doesn't seem to be an agenda for Abel and me at the moment, which means I won't receive any answers. I'll have to get a grip on myself without them.

_Don't focus on the big picture or the consequences. They make your head spin. _

Try something more immediate, smaller. Like…the smells in the room. The memories. It's been so long since my Games, but the memories start here. I've tried so hard to push them down deep where they can't come out and hurt me. They hurt anyway. They always manage to creep back. I realize that this journey is a manifestation of my nightmares.

_Face them, Annie_.

What choice do I have?

Just after the reaping. I remember the smell of the train's fuel and my own fear making me nauseous. I wanted to hide in my room. Lavinia made Colm and I eat dinner – a sort of pea soup that I choked on. Smelled like a garden vomited. Lavinia smelled like a walrus in heat, some awful musky perfume. Then the carpet cleaner, the wood polish, just like now.

Something's missing from the odors in the room. Mothballs. I remember that scent particularly.

_Mags. _She kind of smelled like that, mothballs and talcum powder. She spent a lot of time with me on the train. She held me together like a broken vase.

_The air is gone. Gone and the more I flail my arms and legs, I can't move. I need to find air, but instead I'm pulled under… _

_I'm soaked in a cold sweat and tangled in the bed sheets when I wake up from this nightmare. Mags sits on the mattress next to me wearing a busy plaid nightgown with lace on the collar and cuffs. _

_Her whispered soft assurances of safety and the gentle rocking of the train car help my heart slow. The cold sweat dries. I pray a silent, agonized apology to Colm. Slowly, I free myself from the fabric confines. _

"_I don't think I should sleep with sheets or blankets anymore," I murmur as she strokes hair away from my forehead. It's becoming our nightly ritual. Darkness. Nightmares. Waking. Mags comforting me. Falling asleep again. Morning light. Back to the Victory Tour. _

"_You are a screamer now," she says. _

_I sit up and scoot closer to her. "You heard me?" _

_Mags shakes her head. "Finnick passed by on his way to steal milk from the kitchen again. He told me." _

_I fall back on my pillow and throw my arm over my face. Finnick Odair. The thought makes me want to die. I have a box of drawings I made of him under my bed at home. I started collecting at the ripe age of eleven when he won his Games. He always looks poised, carefree. For Finnick, life must be a breeze – why else would he smirk all the time in that self-satisfied way? I'm the total opposite, a basket case of a girl. Unimpressive, out of control, contemptible. A screamer. _

"_I'm so embarrassed," I groan. My burning cheeks are proof of that. At least the mortification overshadows the horror of my dreams. I seize upon the subject like a lifeline lifting me out of my own head. "Now he knows I'm an irrevocable freak." As if there was any chance of living down my disgraceful display in the arena. No tribute from District Four has ever comported herself that way. It's why we have so many victors. _

_Mags grins knowingly. Unable to bear it, I sit up to hide my face against her shoulder. She sighs. "He has his hooks in you too, I see." _

_Just one more of his girls? "I suppose you think it's stupid of me to want someone like Finnick. He's perfect and I'm a wreck. Girls swarm all over him…He's sort of…I bet he's…" _

"_Finnick isn't perfect, Annie," Mags says, patting my hand. "But he ain't bad either. Just like you aren't crazy, just a little funny in the head sometimes." _

_My shoulders sag. Funny in the head doesn't sound like a step up from crazy. _

_Mags's finger tilts my chin upward, making me meet her warm eyes. "If you spent less time on your own on this trip, you might realize that he's just a boy like all the others your age," she chides me, though kindly. "Beneath the shiny exterior, he's a bit stupid and immature and human." _

_Human? He's Adonis. But in her seventies, she probably doesn't remember what it's like to be sixteen, awkward, inadequate, and enthralled. _

"_And I happen to know that he has nightmares too," she intimates. "I've even heard him scream like a little girl…when my cat jumped on him." That finally makes me laugh. Mags stands up and straightens the pile of sheets over my legs. "Try to sleep, Annie. We're almost in District 1." _

"Annie. Annie?"

A hand flashes in front of my face. I flinch away from it, but in the small chair there isn't really anywhere I can go. The hand falls away and I look up into the face of our district escort.

"Lavinia?" I stammer. "What are you doing here?"

It's a stupid question. Lavinia has more right to this train than I do. She frowns through layers of makeup and the flaming red hair framing her face. Red became her signature color after the 65th Games. Surprise. Her face looks oddly tight, more than I remember, like someone took clothespins and pulled her skin to the back of her head. It makes her bulbous lips jump out. I blink at them, almost certain that I can see my face reflected in the gloss of her lipstick.

"It's late, Annie," she says in a high-pitch squeak like she's talking to a two-year-old. "Let me show you to your room."

She takes my arm and also tries to take my bag, but her acrylic nails are no match for me. To my surprise, she leads me toward the female mentor's compartment. Peacekeepers escort Abel, grumbling and cursing, down to the male tribute's room. They stand outside his door after shoving him inside.

_Serves you right_, I gloat. I wonder what he expected them to do after he turned me in for "safekeeping." I'd rather face the angry townspeople with their bats and crowbars than the protection of the Capitol. I feel nothing but anger at the way he betrayed Finnick's trust. If only he'd step in front of the train….

"We'll be home tomorrow," Lavinia chirps, wishing me goodnight. She closes the door behind her.

I stand in the low light of the bedroom with the bag containing my wedding dress hugged to my middle.

_Home? _

…

Abel hands me a white baggie again.

"I'm not going to throw up," I snarl.

He shrugs. It looks odd on him, I realize, because it's the first time I've seen him wear a shirt in three years. "You look green," he says.

I don't feel green. I don't feel anything at all. Everything seems very distant, like looking through the wrong end of a telescope. The sunlight, buildings, faces, billboards, the vehicle's AC blowing on my arms; none of it registers. I know that they're there, but I don't know or remember what I'm seeing or feeling. Even the escort vehicle's upholstery doesn't leave an impression on my fingertips.

The driver pulls into the roundabout in front of the Training Center.

"Why have they brought us here?" I ask Lavinia, not for the last time.

She gives me a smile in the rearview mirror. "I bet you're feeling sentimental, huh? You haven't been back in five years."

Sentimental? Why do I ever think that I'm the crazy one?

"Are we training?" I stammer.

"You?" Lavinia laughs. "No, Annie."

"Are we prisoners?"

The escort's smile tightens almost to a grimace. "Why would you think that? If the President wanted you as prisoners, he'd send you to jail, not the Training Center, wouldn't he? You're here for safekeeping, like we've been telling you."

The driver opens my door and hands me out. A Peacekeeper comes around for Abel. On the sidewalk, Lavinia takes my elbow and leads me toward the large, plate glass doors that open silently. "What am I in danger from?"

"Annie." She squeezes my arm, just a little too tight. "I'm not the one to say, and it's not for you to worry about."

I dig in my heels when we reach the elevator. She presses the buttons and the gold doors slide open within seconds. "But if I'm in trouble, I think – "

Lavinia lets the doors slide shut without us. She pats my back and aims for that soothing voice again. "We know how troubled you must be after recent events. President Snow himself provided professionals to talk with you during your stay."

She presses the button again and the doors slide open. She pushes me in.

"How long of a stay?"

"Really, dear, there is such a thing as too many questions."

…

The ordered calm feels more menacing than the riots back home. Everyone seems so disgustingly pleased to see me. It makes my head swim.

"Good morning, Miss Cresta. Please, take a seat."

I mumble a generic greeting to Dr. Celsus and do as I'm told.

What used to be the common room on Floor Four is now the doctor's makeshift office, complete with a couch, desk and chair where the sofas, television, and Finnick's shrine once stood. He sits behind the desk. I sit on the couch. He asks questions. I answer.

That was yesterday. It looks like today will be much the same.

The silver-haired doctor looks to about ten years older than me, in his low thirties. His hair can't have greyed naturally, he's too young. I suppose the false "aged" ruse causes people to trust his wisdom. He shuffles some papers on his desk.

"I viewed my notes from yesterday's session." He smiles in a warm, professional manner that doesn't reach his eyes. "Well, Annie, how are you feeling today?"

How do I feel? I feel hollow and listless, like a balloon that isn't tied to anything. Last night I tried to cry but nothing happened. I'm a widow, just about, but I stared at the ceiling for hours like a piece of driftwood stuck in the sand. Blank and inanimate.

Or if I'm completely honest, like one of the abandoned skiffs.

Having to say all that out loud to a pseudo-middle-aged stranger would deflate me and I'm already emotionally spent.

"I'm fine," I murmur, beginning the game of Pretend.

He smiles again. "Describe _fine._"

"It's just…fine." I hold my hand out, reaching for words that aren't there. "I don't know why I'm here. Nobody answers my questions."

The doctor nods, considering. "Listen, Annie, I want to help you learn to cope…"

"Cope? You think I need to cope?" I'm doing that already. It isn't enough – more like bleak resignation.

He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. "I told you about the file I received from your escort yesterday. Extensive notes are made for each victor of their…reactions, behaviors, activities. In the arena and out of it. It's important that we know how you maintain yourselves. Celebrity, after all, can be a burden."

"I don't have any celebrity," I remind him. "It's the least of my worries, actually."

Celsus delicately taps his fingers on the file folder. "You have experienced some difficulties and your lifestyle does not reflect the natural progression of other victors.

"They function better than I do." That, I realize, is the material point. "I'm broken?"

"I don't think you're damaged, Annie," he answers smoothly. "My theory is that you've misinterpreted a fairly standard coming of age experience and that blocked your natural progression. In other words, you're stuck as a sixteen-year-old girl replaying the same scenarios over and over. A normal person experiences stress, like the Games, recovers, then moves on. Our sessions together will help you root out the self-defeated thinking that holds you back."

Some neurological signal tells me to close my gaping mouth. I'm staggered by Dr. Celsus's gall. The Hunger Games are not a _standard experience. _He stated that I'm not damaged but the implication dangles from every word he says, like this is somehow my fault. His lack of understand makes me feel like an invisible noose is tightening around my neck, cutting off the air.

"I am responding normally, Dr. Celsus. Another child severed my friend's head in front of me." My body starts to tremble. I think that's the first time I've said anything direct about Colm's death in years. "It isn't…right. How do I forget that? The Capitol did this to me."

"Certainly it was a challenging experience," he says. "Blaming others and victimizing yourself blocks your ability to move forward. Hasn't the Capitol provided for your every need since the program?"

The question throws me off and I feel my face flush. "My needs?" I sputter. "Houses filled with useless furniture and more money than I can possibly use doesn't fix anything. It's in my _heart_." I hold my hand over my chest where it's beating rapidly, filling my ears with the sound of rushing blood. "How do possessions help what's happened in here?"

"What happened _in here_, as you put it? Are you plagued by the manner in which you won?" he asks. It's veiled accusation that I brought this pain on myself.

I rise from the couch and pace on wobbly legs. "The manner in which I won? Almost drowning?" My voice rises. "I'm plagued that I became a tribute in the Games at all. Don't you understand?" I face him while my voice rises. "Have you any idea what your Games cost me and the people I love?"

"I can see that discussing your Games upsets you," he says, looking disappointed. "Let's start somewhere safer. Describe your home life, please."

Thrown off in the middle of my momentum, I stumble to collect myself, and drop into my chair.

He reads a few lines from the file. "You chose to remain exclusively in District Four during the last five years, save the two weeks of your Victory Tour. Did you never wish to travel?"

I shake my head dumbly. "I preferred to stay home. I wish I was there now."

"Of course," he replies, scribbling something down. "I see also see that your family is dead. Did you develop any meaningful friendships?"

"Mags and Finnick…but…." I've lost everyone.

Dr. Calsus's eyes glance up from the paper. "Ah, I am sorry for your loss…and in such a manner." He shakes his head, then gives me a sad smile. "Never fear, President Snow intends to bring justice to the rebels responsible for your fiancé's disappearance. And he's made every possible effort to ensure the safety of the remaining victors, since those seem to be the enemy's target."

My heart palpitates and I barely hear anything else the doctor says. "_Disappearance_? But he…but I…the cannons…"

"They haven't told you anything?" he asks, too readily. I shake my head. It's all I can manage.

"We have no proof that Finnick Odair is dead," Celsus says gravely. "Although, one can never be sure in these situations. As the days pass, it is probably best not to hope too much. Traitors know no law."

He's not dead? I can't even grasp it. Is it possible?

I don't know if I feel better or worse.

I haven't heard anything about the Quell in conjunction with rebels, except that the people were upset to lose their victors. Certainly nothing to indicate a widespread, organized coalition.

The doctor catches my puzzled expression. "With your district in uproar I'm not surprised you haven't heard. The Quell disaster is under investigation. Rebels managed to infiltrate the Capitol's defenses, resulting in the death or capture of Katniss Everdeen, Beetee Verso, and your Finnick Odair, as well as several district mentors."

Marina and Seward – of course. I hadn't even thought of them. I've been so hung up over Finnick and Mags. Are they alive? Two more people to worry about. I just – I'm not equipped for this.

"Perhaps you can help us, Annie," the doctor suggests.

Me? I can't even help myself. "How?" I ask.

He leans back in his chair, looking casual. "What do you know about your fiancé's activities in the Capitol?"

"My fiancé? You keep calling him that," I say, stalling. "How do you know we were engaged? We've told no one."

"We keep up. And you arrived here with a wedding dress, did you not?" He swivels gently back and forth in his chair. "Now, what can you tell me about Finnick. The information is vital."

I'm beginning to wonder if Celsus is a real doctor or if he's something else entirely. What doctor spies on a patient he's never met or turns a counseling session into a political inquiry? "I can't tell you much of anything. I never come here with Finnick and he doesn't confide in me," I say, hoping to end it.

"It never troubles you? The company he keeps, the reputation he has?" The doctor's eyes soften, belying the nasty insinuation.

"We aren't married. He can do as he pleases." I swallow back the bile rising in my throat despite the bravado. It's true though, there is a lot about Finnick that I don't know, and I always believe what he tells me. But I feel confused and uncertain without him here. The doctor's barely concealed look of contempt for my naiveté doesn't help.

"The trouble is, Annie, that we know Finnick contacted Cinna, a known rebel. It doesn't look good." His gaze pierces through me. "And if he is tied to the rebellion, then he's not a hostage at all."

Celsus lets this settle in. If Finnick isn't a hostage…then he's one of the rebels too.

"It must be a coincidence," I bluster. "Cinna's designs are famous and he's a stylist for the Games. Finnick may have had any number of reasons to associate with him." I swallow, trying to think. "I admired the dresses Cinna made for Katniss. Finnick and I were engaged. It makes sense. He couldn't be a rebel."

"Of course," says the doctor. "You know him best. But the facts are not encouraging."

The facts.

_He decided to volunteer_. _He wanted to go._ The memory shoots through my head, and I've never wanted to kill anyone before, but right now I could kill Abel for telling me. For destroying my faith.

_Things may get rough in the district and Capitol after the Quell_. He knew this would happen. Helped plan it, even. Finnick meant to get to the Capitol, then. He never tried to stay with me.

My chest aches so badly as the pieces fall into place, creating one conclusion: I've been abandoned. I'm the damaged skiff left on the beach to dry out and warp. This is Finnick's secret – everything he's done has culminated at the Quell. A part of his life he never invited me into and never intended to. His escape from District Four, the Capitol, and from me.

But he said he loved me. He said he'd come home.

If he loved me, would he run with the rebels and leave me to the Capitol?

I don't have the whole picture. I want to believe that my wholehearted trust in Finnick isn't misplaced, that the implications don't add up to anything. But I don't know what to think. The doctor isn't trustworthy - are my instincts?

A horrible wracking sound like a drowning cat fills the room in short bursts. It's coming from me.

Dr. Celsus shakes his head sadly, watching my meltdown. "Your friends should have brought you to us years ago when you started showing symptoms of trauma. Perhaps they were not looking out for your best interest, as you can see from this sad business."

"Stop talking to me," I sob into my hands. "Please, stop."

At some point the door opens softly, but beneath my shield of hair I don't know what's happening around me. I want to be in Mags's cave right now, far away from everyone.

"Annie, you've got to face the truth and learn to cope with it. The sooner you acknowledge that your friends abandoned you, Finnick abandoned you, the sooner you'll be able to move on."

"Shut up!" I scream. Not because he's lying, but because he's voicing the horrible thoughts already in my head. I'm ashamed of them. I've believed Finnick for so long. I'm confused.

"Oh my." I hear the doctor scribble something down in his notes. "Exhibiting catatonic behavior…"

"Catatonic?" I choke.

"I see." He nods to an assistant, who must have entered while I've been weeping. "I think it's time we seek more immediate treatment, Miss Cresta. For your well-being."

The assistant appears at my side. I feel the prick in my arm before I register the syringe in his hand.

* * *

**TBC**

_Thanks for reading!_ _Many thanks to Ceylon205 for beta and correcting my French. :D _

**Shameless plug:** for more information about Finnick's shrine, read _The Golden Fleece_ by Geeky-DMHG-Fan and myself, located on her profile. It's très funny.

List of OCs:

Abel - D4 Victor, won in the years between Finnick and Annie's Games.

Agrippina – Stylist, she belongs to Geeky-DMHG-Fan

Blue Boy – Mags's cat

Colm – Annie's fellow tribute in the 70th Games. He was beheaded – in medea!verse – by a D2 tribute.

Dr. Celsus - A Capitol agent who "interrogates" Annie

Felicia – D2 mentor, whose name seems to elude Finnick

Lavinia – D4 Escort

Marina – D4 Victor, mentor who replaced Mags after the stroke. Will continue the post for the Quarter Quell

Seward – Elderly D4 Victor, retired mentor who will return to the post for the Quart Quell.

Various Peacekeepers


	6. Oh You Pretty Things

**AN:** Most of you seem to be followers of Redux, so you should understand the reference to Peeta and Annie's rescue team. If not, I refer you to _And So We Run Redux Part II_, chapter 5. This scene takes place the day after Madge and Gale finally meet up. And you'll have to forgive me. While I have used a handgun, my memory is rusty. Bear with me.

* * *

**Chapter Six**

**Oh You Pretty Things**

What are we coming to  
No room for me, no fun for you  
I think about a world to come  
Where the books were found by the golden ones  
Written in pain, written in awe  
By a puzzled man who questioned  
What we were here for  
All the strangers came today  
And it looks as though they're here to stay – David Bowie

* * *

_Finnick's POV_

Marina sets her hand down to still my wrist. I hadn't realized that I've been twisting the fire-emblazoned gold bangle on my wrist again. I don't know why I still wear the trinket. Maybe to disguise the red welt I've worn into my skin from playing with it. As effective as a hairshirt, reminding me of my sins. Sins with names. The lost ones: Mags. Johanna. Peeta. Annie.

"Annie appears healthy, Finnick," Seward assures me as he turns and tilts the photo this way and that for a better look.

"You think so?" My eyes burn into the image when he sets it before me, checking and rechecking to see if he's right. I pass it to Marina for inspection.

"I don't need to see the photo again, dear," she says gently. "Annie looks fine. That's the Training Center there." She points. "She's with Lavinia and Abel. They aren't taking her to some torture chamber."

I curl over the bar where the photo lays until the wood digs into my stomach. I can't seem to stop looking at her image in the glossy.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to them.

Seward claps me on the back. "We understand, lad. We'll leave you alone."

My friends slip away from the bar quietly, their absence barely noticed. I'm not much of a companion these days. All my finesse that carried me through ten years of manipulation and spying deserted me after the Quell. The Quell. Another knot forms above my shoulder blade and I dig my fingers into it. Mags used to say that someone kept tying figure eights with her back muscles when she felt particularly stressed out. Mine feels like a sheet bends. Snug sheet bends.

The angle of the photo shows Annie's profile. She's saying something to Lavinia. Maybe asking a question. She's talking. That's good. And she's not being dragged by those Peacekeeper thugs like Abel. Also good.

Whether Abel let this happen or he couldn't stop it doesn't signify. How hard could it be to protect one woman in an overrun district? Nobody notices Annie. Abel could have protected her. Absolutely.

_Annie collapses when Mags hobbles onto the stage. She's on the ground and a Peacekeeer, inconspicuous to the camera, stops me from rushing to her. I don't hear Lavinia introduce the District Four victor tributes for all Panem. All I see is Annie's crumpled form, alone in the cordoned off box. The mayor dismisses the crowd and I try again to get to her, but the Peacekeeper shoves me._

_I shove back and receive a cudgel blow to my jaw. Pain shoots through me like so many stars. _

"_Come along, Mr. Odair. New policy. No visitations this year." Against my will, I'm forced down the back of the scaffold. I twist as far as I can to see if anyone's noticed Annie, just in time to find Abel ducking beneath the cordons. The last thing I see before I'm taken around the other side of the Justice Building, where the cars wait to hurry us to the train, is Annie's lifeless body in Abel's arms. _

Bile burns a line up my throat and fills my mouth with a rancid flavor.

I knew Abel wasn't reliable. I knew…that he was one of us. Out for himself. A true victor. A weasel.

But I needed someone. Who else would look after Annie? The people in the district, they look at her like she's a freak. Not even her maid treats her with any respect.

_You were desperate, Finnick_. _When was the last time you felt that? Five damn years. You believed she was safe. In the blink of an eye, you had no control over what happens to her. You barely saved yourself. No one else could help her. You needed him, a worthless toady who didn't hold out twenty-four hours. _

_You didn't protect Annie, either. _

And maybe that's eating me up inside more than Abel's failure. I believed I'd die in the Quell. I knew the odds. According to the plan, Katniss would survive to rally in the rebellion and then Annie'd have the life she deserves. Instead, I'm alive; Mags isn't; Katniss lies strapped to a table; and Annie's just been escorted back to her own personal hell. And I'm safe in District 13, drinking and staring at a photo.

I lift a finger when Bartel, the bartender, walks past.

His pug face is full of concern. "Another one? You've had four glasses already."

I slide the empty tumbler toward him. "Just one more. Warm it up this time"

"All right, but only skim. It's time to cut you off, Odair." Bartel shrugs and fills my tumbler with warm milk. I down it in one long pull. The liquid sloshes in my stomach. I start to feel queasy and groggy. I slip a couple ration stamps at Bartel, pocket my photo, and mumble a goodnight.

I stumble back to my quarters and into bed.

…

_Shrrrk of tearing fabric. Jabberjays. Building a nest with white silk. Peeking out between some twigs, a tag with a gold embroidered C. One of the black birds lands on a branch and sings in Annie's voice, "Was it worth it, Finnick?" _

"Wake up, Odair." A woman's voice punctures the darkness, not Annie's, a strange accent that scatters the jabberjays back into the recesses of my mind. I'm instantly alert and reaching for my trident. Damn. How did I have nothing but a pillow in the arena?

Nevermind. I push up and off the sheets and grab the assailant in a headlock. In less than a second I can snap the neck with only a twist of my arms.

"_Finnick, stop!" _

It's not the first time I've listened to a tribute beg for her life. My blood races as her fear grows and I prolong the moment before I end her life, savoring her fear. Savoring the feel of being in control for once. Her fingers scrabble over my arm as she chokes out a, _"_Please…augh…H-Haymitch…"

Haymitch?

"_You're not in the arena anymore, son." _That's what he said when I woke up in the hovercraft and grabbed his neck…hovercraft…I'm in Thirteen now. I'm not supposed to kill anyone here. They're not supposed to kill me.

My breath comes out in gasps. Blood pumps like a swollen river through my battle-tense body and a cold sweat breaks over my skin at the memory of my bloodlust.

"Who are you?" I choke, not loosening my hold. As Chaff would say, _brute strength now, trust later._

"N-Nevada," the woman replies in a small voice.

Nevada from the meeting. The rescue team.

I drop her and she falls off the bed. I hear her scuffle on the floor and then a lamp switches on. I flinch in the light that reveals the small, cave-like chamber I've been assigned. There's precious little room for the bed and nightstand, let alone the dresser I don't have the clothes to fill.

When my eyes adjust I see Nevada staring up at me with hard brown eyes. Her neck is a band of red, irritated skin from me grabbing her. A mud-colored braid pulls her hair back so tight over her skull that it nearly slants her eyes. If I hadn't heard the fear in her voiced earlier, I'd doubt she was ever capable of that particular weakness.

"Bloody hell,"I groan into my hands. "You can't just come in here, Nevada. I almost killed you."

The sergeant crosses her arms. "It's six o'clock in the morning already. The day's wasting," she scoffs, but her bravado is shaken.

_Six o'clock? _I need to get to Haymitch's office on Level One, find out if there's any more news on Annie. I lose the sheets, not concerned that I'm only in my drawers. I've worn less in front of larger crowds. I grab the canvas pants provided by the Underground and pull them on. That'll do.

A hand flattens on my bare chest as I round the bed on my way to the door – Nev's. "Hold on, Odair. Where do you think you're going?"

I force her hand away. "I need to see Haymitch."

"You're supposed to be on Level 2 right now," she calls after me. "Getting ready for your shooting lesson, remember?"

_Oh hell. _ I swallow a lump in my throat and rake frustrated fingers through my hair. "Yes."

Nev treads past me to the door. "Annie's probably still asleep, Finnick. Nothing interesting to report yet and no spy's going to risk himself over another photo, so a few more hours of waiting won't hurt." She opens the door, but turns to face me before she leaves. "Practice your rescue speech while you work on your aim."

"My aim's fine," I mutter. _Rescue speech, my ass_.

She frowns. "I've seen your file, Odair. Your work with a trident impressed me, but it's a kid's toy compared to what we're going to play with. You should know that. You've got thirty minutes to eat and clean up, then get your butt up to Level Two."

"Yes, ma'am."

…

District 13 shares one trait with the Capitol: they insist on trussing up their fighters before they let the action begin. Maybe not in ridiculous and revealing costumes, but they love their jumpsuits. We begin our team training with a brand new Mockingjay uniform. Nevada throws it at me when I enter the training center and points me in the direction of the men's locker room.

Only the surly Hawthorne kid is in the locker room when I show up to change. I nod in his general direction, neither of us keen on talking at the moment.

I strip down my pants, throwing them aside to pull the black jumpsuit on. I zip it up and inspect myself in the small mirror over the sink. If I want a better view, I'll have to sneak into the ladies' room across the way.

Hawthorne's got his equally form-fitting suit on as well. He reminds me of a Grim Reaper with his sober eyes and deep frown. He has three inches on my six feet and the boots don't help.

"Black suits you," I say conversationally, not sure what else to do.

The lad grimaces and he eyes me suspiciously.

"Don't worry, Mr. Brightside," I mutter bitterly. "I don't roll that way."

He snorts and eyes the bangle around my wrist.

"Nonsense, it's a gift from Haymitch."

Gale's eyes widen like his fears have been confirmed. "He gave you a flaming bracelet?"

"A token that Katniss could trust me," I say, stressing Katniss's name. "So we could bust her out of the arena."

Whether that puts Hawthorne's suspicions to rest or simply deflates him, I don't know. A real Mockingjay soldier enters and puts an end to the matter.

"Uh, hi," he says, sounding about ten year younger than he looks. "My name is Leo. You're members of Operation Pennie, right?"

"Is that what they're calling it?" Gale scoffs.

Leo ignores the jibe. "Hey, you're one of the kids we found in the woods a couple days ago."

"Yeah, that's me."

"Anyway, I'm supposed to tell you both that Sprocket's here and we're ready to begin training." He leaves without another word.

"He's part of the mission now?"

I shrug. "I guess."

We exit the locker room and meet with Nev and Leo, the former in the middle of a rant on the side of the shooting range. It's a long, narrow room with a high ceiling. Locked gun cases line the walls and at the end of the floor, bullet proof glass with windows in front of dummies and targets. Two members of our team are noticeably missing. Haymitch and Quintus.

"Something wrong?" I ask as the arguing continues.

"Nev's upset about the uniforms," Leo says apologetically from where he's reclining back in a folding chair. I have the feeling that he enjoys his a little too much.

We head over to the shooting range and inspect the guns while a trainer named Sprocket gives instructions and hands out some ugly looking earmuffs.

Leo and Nev continue their debate while the rest of us line up.

"But this is what we wear," he stammers, floored by her inability to grasp the simple concept of military dress.

"Yeah, moron, I know. And we should stick to the dress code because all-black uniforms won't make us stand out in the Capitol," Nev mutters sarcastically as she loads her gun. "They dress like parrots up there."

"I know. Ridiculous." Quintus voice echoes across the room as he saunters in through the double doors, looking like something Agrippina dragged in. The doors seem to swing in slow motion behind him as the rest of our crew gapes at him. Or rather, at the green and gold shimmering uniform he's wearing that fits snuggly, nay, suggestively to his toned body. I suppose I'm the only one desensitized to outlandish displays of fashion. The pilot smirks at us like a cat who got the cream and a chocolate covered mouse beside.

"Hello, you pretty things," he greets, refusing a set of the soundproof gear from Sprocket. He gestures to a rhinestone-encrusted set already around his neck.

"Whoa." Leo drops his earmuffs and shies away from the glare of Quintus's outfit. "You look…"

"Has District 13 learned nothing from the last rebellion?" Quintus asks jovially. Nev shoots him a dirty look, which he disregards. "Nothing could be more absurd than these starched black uniforms." Quintus points down at himself. "Which is why I added sequins."

"And a codpiece?"Leo cries. "Is that supposed to be a goblin face?"

The pilot smirks. "The goblin is a mischievous creature, and as we intend to wreak havoc in the Capitol, I thought it appropriate."

"Now we know who'll mind the hovercraft while everyone else is doing the dirty work," Nev grumbles, her eyes conspicuously averted. "There is no way you're coming dressed like that."

However, I can't help but feel that we've just upped our chance for survival. Quintus is the man I pretended to be, the persona. He understands the Capitol. Hell, he _is_ the Capitol. It doesn't sound as though the rest of the team agrees. Hawthorne's locked jaw must be killing him. Fortunately, Sprocket hasn't handed out the guns yet.

"Don't be cross, Nev. It causes wrinkles," quips Quintus. He notices the raw skin around her neck, and stepping very close to her, takes her chin in his hand for a better look. She scowls when he runs his thumb down the length of it. "Who did this to you?"

She tries to step backward away from him, purposefully not glancing in my direction. "Why do you want to know?" She swallows. "So you can hunt him down like some doof jacked up on testosterone?"

Quintus's jeweled eyebrow arches and his hand drops away. For the first time his composure slips just for a fleeting second. "So I can shake his hand." He grabs a gun from the open wrack and inspects it. "I missed you the other night. I think."

Her scowl deepens. I don't know much about her, but I think that's a blush. "I had work to do."

"Oh, Nev. All pleasure and no fun," Quintus quips while the rest of us begin to feel that we're intruding on something.

She scowls, stepping next to him to grab a gun for herself. "Sounds like the same thing."

"Well, you see," he says as he leans over her. "I've noticed that _pleasure_ takes an _awful_ lot of work. Haven't you?"

"Quintus, go screw yourself."

He backs off and she pushes past him. "Unfortunately, that does seem to be my only option for the present."

The trainer, Sprocket, gives us a shpeal about the guns and introduces each weapon by name. Literally.

Betsy. Tacy. Missy. Bessie. Franny…and so on. All girls. I wonder how they can tell.

I grab a .45 caliber Glock. It's a black piece of deadweight in my hand. Cold. Certainly not ergonomic. I swap it between hands until I'm ready at one of the armoured glass booths, trying to break it in.

Sprocket comes around, showing us how to use the rear and front sight, as well as reload the magazine well. There's an automatic safety on these pistols, but that gives me little sense of assurance. Finally, Sprocket gives us the clear and I raise my weapon and aim.

Well. If I had a trident, that dummy'd be dead. I try imagining that it's Abel. My hands shake.

My hands are pretty steady normally, but this little bugger's sensitive to the slightest movement. I lift old Bessie again, focus on the dummy's chest and fire. It's antithetical to the body, as far as weapons are concerned. You hold it. Shoot. It kicks back. Not like a trident, that requires the whole body's cooperation in a seamless stream of energy, forcing the shaft forward. A trident truly is a physiological work of art. It becomes an extension of one's self. Old Bessie doesn't need me for speed or power. I'm just there to pull the trigger and make sure it's pointed in the right direction. She does all the rest.

I don't like it. My interest deteriorates, so I observe the person next to me. Gale Hawthorne.

He's completely absorbed in what he's doing.

"Your aim's good," I conclude after watching him demolish his imagined foes.

He fires again. "Yeah."

"Shoot often?" It doesn't hurt to know more about my teammate's experience.

"Archery."

"Ah." I put the gun on the counter. "Like Katniss. She's a good shot, too."

Gale's leaden mien takes on more animation than I've seen yet. The lad actually half-grins. "She's an incredible shot. She taught me."

"You and Katniss…you're not…" I flourish my hand suggestively, though I already know the answer to that. I saw the way she went catatonic after Peeta "died" after hitting the force field. I wouldn't have bothered giving him CPR if she hadn't made me believe her feelings for Peeta weren't just an act. You can't pretend to have that kind of grief, Katniss least of all. She's a rubbish actress. Despite this, I want to know where Gale, Panem's most famous cousin, fits into the picture. Triangles make my butt twitch. And if this Hawthorne fellow has some sort of ulterior motive for getting to Peeta for the sake of cutting off a corner of this triangle, then I want to know before we leave and the mission is sabotaged.

"I have a girlfriend," Gale mutters. He adjusts his safety glasses and gets ready to aim.

"Interesting," I simper. She must love him for his enthusiastic outlook on life.

Gale drops his ready position and shoots me a scowl that probably means he doesn't find anything remotely interesting in sharing this topic with me.

"You see," I say, leaning against the counter. "I get that we're protecting the Mockingjay, so Katniss logically can't go on this mission. I get why Haymitch is going and why I'm going. And the ones from Thirteen are a give-in. But you've already had your fair share of action from the Capitol and you've got everything _here_. Your family, friends, and your girl."

Gale fires off another round before he answers. The dummy never stood a chance. "Like I said, I'm doing this for Katniss because she can't do it herself. Somebody needs to make sure Mellark gets out."

His bravado staggers me. "And we can't handle it? A bunch of victors and trained personnel?"

"You've done a bang-up job so far," he grouses, never once looking at me. I watch him pull out the magazine from his gun and reload again.

I shrug. "We did what we could." But in my own head I'm thinking the exact same thing as he is. _We've failed so far._

I follow Gale's example and fire another round. I'm concentrating on the target and the way the bang of the pistol pounds through the air. I don't notice at first that Gale is speaking to me.

"Say what?" I ask, when my weapon's empty.

"So why is Haymitch coming?"

Do I spoil Gale's appetite or not? The two didn't come across as a cuddly pair, and well, finding out about this side of Haymitch made me feel a little squeamish myself, and I consider him a friend.

"Kid, you don't want to know."

Serendipitously, the old codger himself appears through the training center doors looking like the bright ray of radioactive poison that he often is. My stomach drops into my pants. Gun forgotten, I meet him halfway through the room.

"News?" I demand. That one word sums up the majority of our conversations since I woke up after the Quell.

He nods once curtly then waves to the others to assemble around him.

"Don't start crying like babies, but we're cutting training short. The Capitol's all but handing our targets to us on gilded platters."

"Tch. Gilded platters in the Capitol? Never," Quintus scoffs. He smirks when Haymitch glares at him.

"What did you find out?" Gale demands.

"Snow wants a televised denouncement of the rebellion. One of our sources managed to score a copy of the script and deliver it to a contact scheduled to slip out of the Capitol. According to this script, Peeta will denounce the rebellion."

"When will it air?" I ask, knowing this will be our deadline.

"At the end of the week," he answers.

"Who is this source?" Nevada asks skeptically. "How do we know the script is legit?"

"Our source _wrote_ it," he growls.

Oh.

"And the one who brought it?" someone asks.

Haymitch's eyes scan the crowd and seem to linger on Gale Hawthorne.

"See for yourself." We turn to the doors. A man steps through wearing a tattered uniform I recognize instantly as an Avox's.

I ask, turning to Gale, "You're a miner. Would you call that hair color copper or ginger?"

Judging by Hawthorne's heightened color and slack jaw, he's not paying attention to me.

"Everyone," says Haymitch. "Meet one of our contacts, newly arrived. Darius."

I've never heard of him.

* * *

**TBC**

_Thanks for reading and special thanks to Ceylon205 for beta! _

_AN: I don't know if I'll be getting back to this before Mockingjay comes out. We'll see. _


	7. Planets Bend Between Us

**A/N:** Important! This is now officially **AU**! Therefore, bear in mind that medea!Finnick was not pimped out as I began this story before MJ's release. If you don't recall what Finnick was piddling around in the Capitol for, re-read chapters 1&2.

The original chapter 7 is in shambles. Fortunately, the original chapter eight works just as well, if not better this way. So, here it is. Thanks to Ceylon205 for beta! And Geeky for going over each draft with me and providing a creative crutch. We are taking a step back in the timeline - huzzah for flashbacks. I didn't italicize it this time because it's a lot of text and I know I have a hard time reading it that way.

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

**The Planets Bend Between Us**

_The shells crack under our shoes_

_Like punctuation points_

_The planets bend between us_

_A hundred million suns and stars_

_The sea filled in this silence_

_Before you sang those words_

_And now even in the darkness_

_I can see how happy you are_, Snow Patrol

* * *

_Annie's POV_

Abel and I arrived in the Capitol three weeks ago. I have slept through most of it. When I wake up, I am alone unless I have to see Dr. Celsus. On the nights when the medication wears off early, I lie awake in my bed, staring up at the ceiling of my bedroom in the Training Center. The pills force me to relax or fall asleep, but when the drugs leave my system, I am robbed of both. My restless fingers have frayed the silky edge of my pillowcase from hours of rubbing the silky material between them. Pacing makes me dizzy, so I stay curled up in the sheets.

Sometimes I curl up with a pillow and pretend it's Finnick. I imagine that we're together in his bed again, or in Mags's cave. Sometimes I imagine that it's years from now and there's a baby with red-gold curls until it makes me ache with loss for something I never had.

Then there are the memories of home. I spent time by myself there, too. When Mags and Finnick, and later Marina and Finnick, left for the Games or tours, I would visit the waterside. Especially in the beginning when the flashbacks were particularly bothersome and I had no one to help me. The sea filled in the silence of the empty mansions. I conquered the water, so it didn't threaten me anymore. Finnick noticed that first and told me I should spend more time at the beach to remind myself.

Small victories.

I fill my nights with memories of the last five years. If my mind defaults to the past, why not get stuck in a good piece of it for once? Grey pre-dawn light filters in through the windows of my bedroom. My fingers skim over my lips slowly as a memory comes to the surface of a vast pool of images. The night I received my first kiss. I picture it from different angles, prolonging the memory, until the night ends. I try to enjoy the dark moments of clarity before the light brings Dr. Celsus and a haze of pills and words.

_The early winter of Year 71..._

The waves roll in flat sheets today, barely crawling over the pebbly beach. It's safe enough to climb the natural causeway extending beyond the cove. Shells crack under my boots; I hear them just above the crashing surf. Layers of thick, wool socks pinch my toes within my old, green galoshes, but also hold in the warmth. I slip a little on the slick, uneven rocks piled on each other like a heap of broken teeth.

Sea spray chills my face, I feel the coarse saltiness of it encrusting my cheeks. Three sweaters and my parka help to block the northern wind when the cove walls no longer protect the very edge of the causeway.

Around my feet, little hatches and tidal pools are filled with barnacles, dead seaweed and tiny crabs who missed the tide. Ships pass in the distance, some won't return for months. They'll bear a season's worth of snow crab when they do. I like watching the waves leaping over one another beneath the horizon, and the knife-grey sea beneath the low, cloudy sky promising snowfall. It feels small and safe.

Bells toll in the village. Lights appear in the little windows in the wind-washed clapboard houses, I imagine. Smoke curls through the tops of chimneys. But I'm watching the sky and the sea bruise into a deep, inky blue-black. The waves rise and fall in gruff cadences. I'm happy here. I let the rhythm of the water and the uniformity of the sky provide a pace and direction for the scattered and shattered pathways in my mind. My legs don't feel my weight. My feet don't feel the cold. The wind blows wisps of my soft hair around my throat. I don't mind.

I usher in the enjoyment of this moment and allow my eyes to close on the world. I let the wind whistle in my ears. For once, I let go of fear. I close my eyes and invite the vague shadows in my mind to come forward and dissipate.

I'm lost in some other world when unexpected arms find me and pull me back to the waterside. My body stiffens while his body wraps around me from behind.

"It's only me," he murmurs. I feel his lips on my hair. It fills me with an unexpected warmth that has nothing to do with my three sweaters or thermal underwear.

"Finn?" I ask, though it's unmistakably him. If I paid any sort of attention this morning, I would have known that today is Sunday, marking the end of the victory celebrations in the Capitol. He's free to come home.

I expect Finnick to let go of me now, like he always does. Over the last year since my Games, contact between us has been short and polite. Sometimes even affectionate, as in the moments when he unexpectedly takes my hand or brushes pieces of my hair behind my ears. He says it's so he can see me better. Otherwise, he's always maintained a respectful distance, like he believes I'm too fragile.

But Finnick doesn't let go yet. I feel emboldened to press the boundary, too. I lean back against his chest and finally feel the dull ache in my legs from standing rigidly for so long. Finnick has never held me this way before. Never touches me without asking permission, or giving full warning first. I don't mind him sneaking up on me. It's just different. He lets me turn around to face him, but his arms don't break the tight circle they form around me. The wind blows my hair over my shoulders, into his face. I look for answers in his eyes, a sparkle of mischief, a creased eyebrow, anything that will tell me what has changed since he left a week ago.

In the dying light his eyes look smoky rather than green. He wears his long, navy blue coat with the collar drawn up in a cavalier fashion. A thick, striped scarf that Mags and I gave him for his birthday hangs around his neck. Long strands of his bronze hair escape from his wool cap.

"You surprised me," I tell him finally, when it seems like something should be said.

"You looked cold standing on the causeway by yourself," Finnick replies with a lazy smile.

I shiver against him. "I didn't know I felt cold until now."

His smile broadens and his cold-red nose momentarily brushes mine. I startle. "Oh!"

"I missed you," he quips. A thread of amusement colors his voice.

"Me?" I gasp, taken aback by the confession. A rush of blood heats my cheeks. After all, he only left for a week.

"Yes, you." Finnick laughs and I can hear him thinking, _Don't be silly, Annie. Of course I mean you. Please try to keep up_. "Did you miss me?"

His nose seems to have developed an affinity for mine. It makes it difficult for me to reply with him so near, completely ignoring conventions of personal space. I swallow thickly.

"Well? did you?" he urges, leaving my nose alone long enough to look me in the eyes.

"Y-yes, I missed you," I stammer at his scarf. I have the feeling that he's cornering me somehow, and...and it's sort of thrilling. And confusing. "But then, Blue Boy isn't much of a conversationalist," I babble.

Finnick's head falls back and his laughter rings out in the evening air. It's gratifying to hear. But then he pulls away from me and I fear I've done something wrong. The wind feels sharper now, coming off the water with wet needles of sea spray. He takes my hand in his and leads the way back down the causeway.

"Are we going home now?" This makes me feel sad. I am enjoying this strange, new side of Finnick. For some reason, I don't think it will be quite the same around Mags.

Finnick looks over his shoulder at me and smiles. "Not just yet," he says. "Let's get out of the wind, though."

It's difficult to navigate the rocks and pools in the dark. Halfway back, I slip on an icy patch, into his arms. I try to correct myself and almost take him down with me. Finnick tweaks my hair and teases me, then we press on.

It's easy going once we gain the beach and we can talk now that we're not concentrating on our feet.

"Something's different about you, Finnick," I tell him when he tucks my arm through his. Our boots crunch along the pebbles while we slowly walk along the water's edge.

"What do you think it is?" he teases. A grin spreads across his face, making his white teeth stand out in the gloom. He's using that voice again, the affected accent he reverts to when he talks to Lavinia or when he's on television.

I blush because this side of him makes me feel clumsy. "I don't know."

"You don't like it?" Finnick's face tenses, and his voice loses the exaggerated drawl. _Now_ he's worried about boundaries?

"No, it's not that," I assure him. "I just want to know what I'm missing." It's usually a lot. I rely on Finnick and Mags to point things out to me.

Finn releases a long, cloudy breath. His eyes dip down in a rare moment of self-consciousness, but as I'm rather shorter, I can still see his eyes perfectly. The amused expression he's worn since finding me falls from his face like a mask, revealing a serious intensity underneath. It's unnerving. "I had a moment of clarity while I was gone, Annie."

"Oh." That sounds nice. He'll have to tell me how he managed it. "What was it?"

He stops walking and reaches for my other arm. "It's you."

"Me?" My eyes feel impossibly wide.

A grimaces pinches his face. "You say that like I'm...," he says, scratching his head through his cap. "Oh, I don't know. Like you're surprised that I think about you at all."

"I am surprised," I'm startled into admitting.

"Why?" he asks, rounding on me with a hint of exasperation. "Aren't we friends?"

"Of course." I squeeze his hand, so he knows.

"Well, friends think of their friends," Finnick declares, walking again. "And I think about you all the time, just like you think of me all the time."

I trip a little, taken aback. "How do you know that I do?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "It is the way of things," he says superiorly. That peculiar voice of his resurfaces.

"Well...," I have to swallow some embarrassment and try to take the attention off of how much I really do think of him. "How did thinking of me give you a moment of clarity?" That is not a state of being that I am usually connected with.

He says after a pause, "Something went wrong."

"What went wrong?" I murmur.

"I'll tell you."

But he doesn't. He leaves me dangling while he thinks. Finnick's thumb strokes the back of my hand through our mittens while he considers his words. I listen to the sound of pebbles and shells crunching under our boots. The cold settles in. He picks up three of the flat stones by our feet and throws them, one by one, into the waves. Each of them skips in three or four arcs before plopping into the water.

I stoop to pick up another smooth stone and pass it to him as a token of friendship. He accepts it, quietly studying the grey and red lines, then puts it away in his pocket.

"Finnick, I think you'd better tell me before my imagination runs wild." I nudge his arm.

"Sorry, Annie," he apologizes, ruffling the hair on the back of his neck. "Suddenly I'm having a hard time figuring out what to say." He winks at me. "There's a first for everything, eh?"

"You're stalling," I gently scold, folding my arms over my chest as best as I can with all clothing I have on. "You can tell me anything, you know."

"I know. But where to begin?" Finnick pauses again, this time to pull my collar higher on my neck, somehow knowing that the wind's been blowing down the back of my coat. "I've been back and forth in the Capitol for six or seven years, visiting, mentoring and whatnot."

"Yes," I reply. "I know. Six years is a long time for all that attention."

"The attention isn't so bad most of the time. A little invasive. The company can be strange, but as long as I'm entertaining enough, they treat me like one of their own," he says. That might sound pompous from anyone else - and sometimes Finnick likes to sound pompous - but I can' tell that he's not confessing to me, so much as trying to convince himself that he doesn't care. "But last week, out of the blue, I felt cheap."

"Why?" I ask.

"Because people in the Capitol think they know me. Love me, even." He shares a smirk with me, like we're both in on the same joke. The smile doesn't reach his eyes, though, and I wonder why he puts himself through this with the Capitol year after year. Why not let Abel mentor? Can he refuse the invitations he receives?

"If they seem to like you so much, how could that make you feel cheap?" I ask. The question that follows comes of its own volition. "Why would you keep doing whatever it is you're doing if you don't like it?"

"I have my reasons, Annie," he evades, though he doesn't break eye contact with me. "I wish I could take you into my confidences, but it would risk everything. Do you think you could trust me?"

It's impossible to refuse him when he's turned the full force of his dark, earnest eyes on me. "I do trust you," I promise. He hasn't given me a reason not to.

"Thank you," Finnick says solemnly. He takes a deep breath. "The women I meet don't know me. Their affection, or whatever you want to call it, has the attention span of a pile of sand caught in a gale. It's there. It's gone."

"Did you want their affection," I ask uncomfortably, hoping the cringe on my face isn't too noticeable. It makes me feel queasy to think of him wanting a woman like our escort, Lavinia.

He cringes too. "Not theirs. I didn't know I wanted it at all. It's all part of the act, Annie. Trust me. What you see, and what those women think, doesn't match up with reality. So, I keep up the ruse that I'm as enamored with them, as they are with me. But for once I want it to be real." If the admission cost him, he doesn't show it. In fact, it doesn't seem to bother him at all. His eyes shine. It's confusing for me. His emotions seem to spark out in a dozen different directions tonight.

"I was so stupid." He laughs. "It took me all week to figure out what had changed...when I stepped on the train for home, suddenly I knew."

Finnick may have found a moment of clarity, but I'm completely befuddled. My nose wrinkles while I try to puzzle it together. "What do these Capitol women have to do with me?" I ask him. Then a horrible idea blooms in my mind. "Do _I _make you feel cheap?"

"Gad, no," he exclaims."It's the opposite. I'm never better than when I'm with you."

That's a happy thought. I feel it tugging on the corners of my mouth. "I feel that way about you."

The skin around his eyes crinkles just a little when he smiles. He tucks the windswept strands of my hair behind my ear. "Then be with me, Annie," he murmurs, his forehead resting against mine. My eyes have to cross in order to look at him properly. I give up and let them close. "Please. I need you."

It takes longer than it should for his meaning to seep in. _He wants me_. How is that possible? I'm a burden, not a help. I've admired him for years, what girl hasn't? And in the last year, while he's been so patient and attentive to me, it's been especially tempting to want him. But for him to look at me with anything more than sympathy couldn't be real, could it? I won't say I haven't imagined it, or mistakenly thought there were moments when he looked at me in a special way. But I know it wasn't real, just my mind playing tricks on me. Just Finnick using the same faces he wears in the Capitol. The beach feels like it's spinning. I grip his arm.

"Why would you need me, Finnick?" I choke on the improbability of it all. "I'm a wreck."

Finnick's fingers skim downward on a strand of my hair until his hand covers my heart "Because of what's in here," he says. We can handle what's in your head. We've been doing that all along. You're good, Annie." His voice breaks a little. The sound makes the back of my eyes prickle painfully. "I need that. There are so few good people in the world. When I'm with you, I feel like maybe there's something worth sticking around for."

I've never considered that Finnick feels as desperate as I do. He's poised. Always has his ready smirk and something jaunty to say. I should have known. I've seen the way he seems to shrink before the Games and how dried up he is when he comes home without two more tributes. He doesn't tell me anything about the tours and invitations he is forced to accept, but when he comes home he's drained to the core. He's barely hanging on too, sometimes.

"Of course there is," I urge, wanting to rid the uncertainty from his eyes. Without thinking, my hands cup his cheeks and he leans into the caress, welcoming it. I hate that his life makes him feel that empty, even if he didn't know he felt that way until now. I can think of a few things that would make me feel that way, besides the Games. And I know that somehow within the space of a year, he's made it impossible for the world to feel anything but empty without him. "You make me feel the same way."

The uncertainty in his eyes dissipates. He looks at me with something like hope.

"Do you think you could love me, Annie?" he asks. "I'm not nearly good enough for you, but I'll try."

This coming from the man who taught me how to walk through a room with confidence. Who makes sure I'm treated with dignity in the streets and found a way to keep me from having to attend the Games as a mentor because he knew how sick it would make me.

"You are good, Finnick Odair." I mean it. His face pinches with emotion. Somehow the most sought-after man in Panem doesn't think he deserves the most ridiculed, shambled woman in victor history. And somehow the only words that spill from my lips are, "I love you."

And somehow I'm telling the truth, though I didn't know it ten minutes before. It's also true that we're both utterly mad. And helpless. We shiver together like one shadow on the beach until our hands are stiff with cold and we can't feel our lips.

One by one, the lights go out in the windows in the village. The smoke curling in the chimneys thins. Wind whistles a lonely tune through the cove. Waves rock against the pebble beach, a reminder of my past triumph and the promise of a new one with Finnick.

* * *

**TBC**

_Thanks for reading!_**  
**


	8. Help I'm Alive

A/N: Huzzah! After this chapter, we'll be right on schedule with Redux Part II. Whew. Thanks to the folks reading this story. :D

_Thanks to Ceylon205 for beta! All brand new typos are mine. And thanks to Geeky for helping me with Celsus and Caspian…I mean Abel._

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

**Help, I'm alive**

_If you're still alive, my regrets are few_

_If my life is mine, what shouldn't I do?_

_I get wherever I'm going, I get whatever I need_

_While my blood's still flowing and my heart's still_

_Beating like a hammer, beating like a hammer._ – Metric

* * *

_Annie's POV_

My head feels like it's full of cotton from another sleepless night, coupled with unevenly induced sleep patterns from the meds, when the Avox enters the bedroom. Her cropped red hair peeks out from a cloth wrapped around her head, signifying that it's cleaning day. She never smiles, but then, I don't know why she would. Other than when she's kicking me out of the nest of pillows so she can change the sheets, I think she's better at ignoring me than I am at ignoring her. She has to step around me while I cling to the bedpost until the whirlpools in my head and stomach slow down.

The meds are supposed to calm me, but I'd take the hysteria over the side effects. At least it's familiar. I don't want any more shots or pills or syrups in my drinks that make my head feel like it's floating away.

Heads detached from their bodies got me in this mess in the first place. The pill bottles and a water carafe sit on the nightstand, and I wonder if I could tell Dr. Celsus that I don't want them anymore?

Showing up to my session in a nightgown five days in a row probably won't convince him.

I will make an effort, I decide. Small victories, Finnick says. Put on some clothes. Send the message that I'm not going to bed again this morning. Not even this afternoon. I'll sleep when it's dark and the rest of the world falls asleep too. I'll open up the closet full of new clothes and choose something for myself for once. And not just the first thing I grab.

Although that would be easier.

The whooshing of hastily removed linen urges me to get out of the Avox's way. My drug-free resolution fades a little when I'm on my feet without the bedpost. The thick carpet fumbles my feet. I've taken to holding onto the walls when I walk. I guess I'm dizzy a lot. I'm also afraid of falling lately, too. Right through the floor, which seems less and less real with each round of medication.

The Avox finishes her work making the bed and leaves by the time I've opened the closet doors to gape at the contents: my wedding dress, hanging from a hook on the inside of the door like an upside down lily. I don't remember the Avox having it pressed or putting it away. The spiderweb-like creases from traveling in my bag are completely smoothed out. My fingers brush the cool, thin material and instantly feel soothed. I wonder if Finnick picked this one out specifically, or if this is the only one Cinna could part with. Either way the gown is perfect. Finnick sent it.

The keypad on the inside of the door helps one to navigate the intricate storage system, which includes several banks of suspended units filled with more clothes than even Finnick knows how to deal with. I push the largest button at the bottom and the burst of colors and whir of machinery instantly makes me sick. With one hand over my eyes, I use the other to feel the pad for the button that will make it all stop. A few tries later, the clicking of the hangers and pulleys stop.

Smaller victories, then. Just wear whatever appears in front of me. In this case, a black cotton dress and purple sweater. When I pull my nightgown off over my head, I get the first good glimpse of the snarls in my hair. It's no longer shiny or smooth. It hangs around my waist in limp strands or snarled ropes. It's going to take a shower, as well as the dress to convince Dr. Celsus that I'm in any shape to make decisions for myself about the medication.

...

Abel opens the door to his room just as I step, clean and dressed, out of mine. His hair is ruffled and sweat glistens on his broad, naked torso like he's been working out. A laundry cart sits halfway between our rooms in the hallway. His back to me, Abel faces into his room and I catch a glimpse behind him of a woman in his bed hastily holding a sheet up to her chest. The woman has rusty red hair. She sees me, even if Abel is insensible to my presence, and instantly looks away. Her shoulders hunch.

Clothes lie in a pile on the ground next to a long strip of linen - the one tied around the Avox's head. I flinch when the realization hits me. Has that really been going on just across the hall? Has Abel been up to his old tricks this whole time and I've been so out of it that I haven't notice? What else have I missed then?

For the first time, it's more than loathing of how the side effects make me feel that makes me want to stop taking the medications from Dr. Celsus. I have no idea what's going on in the world, let alone on this floor. Only what the doctor decides to tell me.

"Don't go away now," Abel orders the Avox with a jaunty tone. "Just need to grab a drink."

I'm too slow to move out of his way, so when Abel backs up without paying attention, he narrowly avoids the cart and runs into me. His elbow hits me in the stomach.

"Abel?" I gasp, clutching my middle and trying to regain my breath.

He turns around hastily, one heavy, sand-colored eyebrow lifted in surprise. "Oh, it's you," he drawls, looking me up and down with green, bloodshot eyes. "Back from dreamland this early?"

The door's still open, and the poor woman's trying to maintain her dignity and hide at the same time.

I clear last night's cobwebs from my throat, hoping to keep my nerves from showing in my voice. "Abel, is that an Avox in there?" My arms fold over my chest with disapproval.

"Yeah," he replies with an indifferent shrug.

"I don't think it was intended for you to treat her that way," I say reproachfully.

Abel sneers. "That Avox in there," he says, jabbing his thumb toward the room, "Well, I guarantee I'm not the first victor to lift her skirt. It's what all male victors do."

"Not all of them." I have no way of knowing that. Abel certainly would know better than me about the habits of the other victors. But he's wrong when he says _all _male victors do it. "Not Finnick."

"Are you sure?" he asks. "See, I always got the impression that Finnick liked weak, helpless little things. Duping them into caring about him, that's Finnick's game to keep himself amused when he's out of invites from the lusher pickings."

My reply sticks in my throat. Abel's lumping _me_ in with the Avoxes. Suggesting that Finnick toyed with me for amusement. Well...what does Abel know? He's just spiteful.

"But you are right in some ways," he continues, leering over me until I feel the need to step backward onto the threshold of my room to escape the foul odor on his breath. "Some victors are choosier."

Abel waits to see if I get his drift. My eyes dart down the hallway on either side, unable to look at him fully. "Why mess around with an Avox when some rich, experienced Capitol woman has been undressing you with her eyes all evening?" His laugh spills out like curdled milk. "Not me though. I like girls any which way." His hands grip either side of the door frame as he emphasizes each word for my benefit. "Better some Avox than you, right?"

My mouth pops open from the insinuation. I'm forced to step fully into my room as Abel crowds the doorway. "I don't think you should joke about that," I stammer, curled into myself and unable to look him in the eye. "If Finnick were to hear you -"

Abel smirks. "Finnick's dead."

"They don't know that for a fact," I whimper, even as his words bruise me.

"Well, wherever he is, he's left you alone with me," Abel scoffs. "He's dead or he doesn't care. So, you can keep your threats to yourself."

Anger flushes my cheeks, but I try to swallow it down rather than hand over the victory to him. "You're just baiting me to get even with Finnick for some mysterious wrong he's done you."

Abel ignores the accusation, but the tightening around his eyes tells me he heard. His lips curl, and he says, "You look nice all dressed up for once." I feel his fingers on my hair and flinch away until my back is turned to him.

Somehow Abel makes me feel naked and I know that the danger isn't just in my head. No matter what Dr. Celsus says, there's danger out here too. In the physical world. In other people's choices that I have no control over. I'm groggy and disoriented from the meds. I don't know what's happening around me for hours at a time, especially when that awful assistant sticks me with his needle that knocks me out almost instantly. I can't always remember clearly when I'm alert again. I need to talk to Dr. Celsus and make him understand.

Abel pulls another strand of my hair through his fingers. "So, uh, maybe you should just mind your own business, Annie. Don't you think?" he sneers, while smelling the shampoo scent on my hair. "Besides, you don't hear her complaining."

Abel laughs at his own joke. I cover my ears to block the sound. My hands tremble.

No, I don't hear anything at all - and that's precisely why his treatment of her is wrong. I spin around, feeling furious that he's taking advantage of both of us, but he's already across the hall. Abel closes the door resolutely, blocking my sight of the young woman on the other side whose voice has been stolen. Does she want to be in his bed? Can she communicate that to Abel? Would he even pay attention and does she have a choice?

I watch his retreating figure stride down the hall to the dining room where he bullies alcohol out of the attendant. The sound of the elevator doors opening forces my mind off of Abel and back to my session with the doctor. I hope I have more say with him than the Avox does with Abel.

...

The doctor has barely taken a seat behind his desk when I whip into the common room he's using for his office. Celsus startles and his hand flies to his prematurely grey hair, like a woman's might. "Miss Cresta," he stammers. "Good morning."

I fall into the chair opposite his polished desk, ignoring the couch. "Please take me off the medications, Dr. Celsus."  
Dr. Celsus reaches for my file like he always does. "Well, let's proceed with the session, Annie, and see how that goes," he says into his drawer. "Let's not be hasty."

"It's very important," I urge him, gripping the wooden armrests of my chair until my knuckles turn white. "I'm either sick or asleep when I'm on them. I have no idea what's going on. Abel just—"

Dr. Celsus holds his hand up, taking a deep breath before sitting back in his chair. "Please, Annie, let's have a talk before we make any final decisions. I see you have made an effort this morning with your appearance, as well as your punctuality. I'm impressed. I'm sure we can reach an agreement at the end."

I slump in the chair. That slow, suffocating feeling's returning to my throat. We run through a list of questions that he always likes to start with. How do I feel? Are my nightmares coming back? Have I spent the majority of my time daydreaming again?

Dr. Celsus turns to the latest page in his notes while I look away from his last question.

"Can I take that as a 'yes', Annie?" he asks gently.

My hands clasp and unclasp in my lap because I know 'yes' is the wrong answer. "It helps me get through the nights when I can't sleep," I mumble, feeling childish.

"Why can't you sleep?" His pen scratches over the pages before I can begin to answer.

"The pills won't let me," I tell him. He blinks up at me.

"The _sedative_s prevent sleep?" Dr. Celsus pulls out another file with my medications listed on it. He mumbles to himself and makes more notes. "It's a bit early to build immunity...insomnia…up the dosage..."

"It's not the dosage, Dr. Celsus," I interrupt. "I'm forced to rest when my body isn't tired. When it wears off at night, I can't fall asleep again. And that's not all-"

"Hold on a moment, Annie, let's tackle one thing at a time," he says, putting down his pen. His elbows perch on the edge of his desk while he leans forward to listen. "Tell me what you did the last time you couldn't fall asleep."

I'm taken aback, but try to answer. "Well, usually I think about my f-friends...and things that made me happy."

"Fantasizing?" Dr. Celsus asks blandly. His face is a smooth marble slab.

I frown. "No, I _remembered_ a time Finnick and I spent at the beach." I try to be firm but my voice sounds plaintive, even to my ears.

He replies thoughtfully, "Annie, you spend a great deal of your day thinking about Mr. Odair, perhaps to an unhealthy degree. It's the one thing getting you through the day." He shakes his head sadly and makes another note.

I wonder how Dr. Celsus earned his certification. Of course that's how I get through my day in this place. Either I think of Finnick, or I'm rehashing the time I spent here as a tribute. I shudder. Nothing good can come from going down that road. Dr. Celsus barely touches on it anymore.

The doctor and I study one another until my nerves are raw. I can't tell what he's thinking. My fingers dig into my hairline where a dull ache formed sometime between meeting Abel and the doctor.

Dr. Celsus exhales through his nose and the chair creaks when he sits back. "These sessions are designed to help you move forward with your life, Annie, but I think we're starting to see exactly what's holding you back," he finally says.

"What do you mean?" My voice sounds broken and damp. I don't look up, still massaging the ache in my head.

"For example, were you thinking about Mr. Odair when you dressed yourself this morning?"

My fingers stop. No. "I wanted to show you that I'm improving."

Dr. Celsus's neutral expression briefly lifts into a smile. "Excellent. You made a small step forward; in this case, choosing to dress instead of wearing your nightgown continually, and without a thought for Mr. Odair. Very good, indeed."

"That isn't completely true—"

"As opposed to last night when you fixated on Finnick because you couldn't sleep," he continues, absorbed with his train of thought, "instead of finding a solution to your problem."

I thought that was a solution. My arms spill over the armrests, limp with confusion.

"Your problem was sleeplessness. A solution resolves the problem, such as taking another sedative to help you relax, or perhaps taking a short walk in the hallway to tire yourself," he instructs. "Fantasizing about Finnick Odair all night does not solve the problem of your insomnia."

"I thought I was doing something right," I murmur, feeling deflated.

"You are improving, Annie." Dr. Celsus clears his throat and continues. "But here's the material point: your obsession with Mr. Odair blocks your ability to care for yourself and your daily needs, as well as distracting you from seeking healthy alternatives."

A small, shrill ringing begins deep in my ears. "I...hadn't thought of it that way." It's as close to outright disagreeing as I can come.

Dr. Celsus picks up his pen again and my file. "I'm writing down a term, Annie, that you might not have heard. It's _enmeshed_. When couples lose their ability to differentiate their emotions from one another, and cease to function as individuals."

The ringing grows and the aching in my head plods steadily on. I focus on my breathing, like Finnick or Mags and I used to do when it grew too shallow and my nose would tingle from a lack of air. Dr. Celsus makes me nervous when he talks about Finnick. Mixed with Abel's horrible insinuations, I'm afraid that he'll pull the last pieces of my fiance away from me. My grip was always tenuous at best. Still, Celsus drones on with his intellectual, monotone voice.

"Healthy relationships are built on trust within a set of boundaries. You retain your individual identity, though you respect the differences in your partner." He pulls out a fresh sheet of paper. "Would you say Mr. Odair respected you?"

"Yes," I mumble over the cacophony in my head.

"What facts do you use to base this claim on?"

My thoughts fragment when I try to reach for an instance, a memory, any proof that we don't have the sickly relationship Celsus believes. "The way he treated me." It sounds like a question.

"How did he treat you, Annie?" Celsus grills in his own sedate manner.

"Finnick never pushed me beyond what I felt comfortable with," I say. "He treated me with kindness when everyone didn't. He's honest-" I trip over the last one. Finnick wasn't always honest with me. He didn't lie necessarily, but he simply couldn't tell me the truth. Dr. Celsus picks up on the pause.

"I see," he murmurs as I watch his pen wind back and forth across the page. He looks up. "Annie, how much did you really know about Finnick?"

I balk at the question. "More than most." My voice takes on a tart edge. Maybe that's not the best answer, but it's true. I know Finnick as much as anyone _can_ know him.

Dr. Celsus steeples his fingers under his nose. "Annie, there is danger in choosing fantasy over reality. We harm ourselves by willfully blinding ourselves to the signs that warn us about a relationship or situation. Have you ever denied signals that told you something wasn't completely right in your relationship with Finnick?"

I want to lie. But he reads the answer in my pause. Of course there were times Finnick wasn't level with me, especially whenever I would bring up the letters and gifts in his house. Or sometimes he'd gloss over how he spent his time in the Capitol. He'd ask me to trust him. I always did. Do.

Dr. Celsus pushes photos across the desk toward me. I fidget in the chair, stretching the fabric of my dress over my knees so he doesn't see my hands shaking.

"What are these?" I stammer.

"Pick them up, Annie," he urges me.

"What are they?"

"A piece of reality," he says grimly.

I lift up one photo, glance at it, and immediately drop it on the desk. My mouth goes dry. My chest spasms. Every bit of me shudders against the image permanently etched into my mind. "H-how did you get that?"

"Finnick Odair is under investigation for treason, Annie. I told you this in one of our first sessions," he says humorlessly. "These photos were collected for that reason. You need to know the truth as much as the Capitol does."

I shake my aching, ringing head. "I don't want to look at the rest." I want to hide and find a way to rinse out what I've just seen.

"Annie, you owe it to yourself to know how you've been deceived."

With trembling fingers, I flip through the pile as quickly as I can. They're of one theme: Finnick and his...lovers. The same ones who sent him so many letters and gifts. The women he denied caring about. Each image comes with a time stamp in the corner in ugly yellow numbers. One woman I recognize, the photo taken in District 2 on the night of my Victory Tour. It's Felicia, the district's mentor, at the time. On that night, Finnick helped me feel human for the first time since my Games. But before he showed up in the broom closet, he flirted with this bizarre looking woman, I remember. In the photo he's smirking over the rim of a glass while they lean against a pillar. Nothing too untoward in their facial expressions. Even their hands are busy with their drinks. It's Felicia's knee pushed between both of his legs that suggests _everything._

"That happened five years ago," I tell Dr. Celsus, trying to justify Finnick's behavior - at least in this instance. "Finnick and I had barely met." He didn't owe me anything, yet.

Celsus points at the pile with his pen. "Keep looking."

I do, or else he'll do it for me. My fingers tremble so badly I drop a few of the glossy pieces of paper. I can't focus on my breaths; my face loses feeling. The stack doesn't seem to grow small though I leaf through photo after photo.

Finnick pulling a key out of a woman's bodice while she whispers in his ear. Year 71. The year he told me he felt cheap, and that he loved me.

A woman using a tube of lipstick to write her number on his arm while he leans in to smell her perfume. Year 72. I invited him to stay in my bed that year because I found out he still had nightmares, too.

Finnick coming out of a hotel room, buttoning his shirt. Year 73. Mags had her stroke. I spent most of every day with her.

Two pairs of legs in a bathroom stall. Year 74. Taken two weeks before he proposed to me after returning from the Games.

Finnick in his net costume, leering at a woman with tiger stripes tattooed all over her body. I can't tell where her clothes end and her skin begins. Finnick leans forward to whisper in her ear as she stares at the knot in his scant costume…Year 75. We would have been married by the end of the month.

There are more. Five years of photos. Faces to the women who wrote to him. Familiar expressions on his face, the way his mouth slants upward, half-closed eyelids. Never warm, like when he looked at me. No, he's smoldering. Brimming over with his ability to intoxicate anyone with desire.

Especially the simpleminded. None of the women look like they have an iota of intelligence between them. They're hanging from his lips, believing every word, every look, every promise.

I'm a fool. The truth stirs deep inside me, turning my stomach sour. Every instance where I vowed to trust him returns to the forefront of my mind like sharp slaps on my face. My cheeks burn with shame. I feel Finnick slipping from me. I should have made him tell me everything. Did he think I was so simple that he could dupe me forever? I believed him so readily when he said that he loved me.

_Abel said you were part of his game, a source of amusement. _And Finnick looks very amused in these photos. It lights him up; he could feed off of it forever.

"I don't want to see anymore," I say woodenly, halfway through the stack. I get to my feet, stumbling. "Then something occurs to me. "What's the point of all this? How can you try Finnick for treason if you don't even know if he's alive, or where he is?"

"Oh," says Dr. Celsus, looking at me with a peculiar interest. "I expect we'll find out very soon."

Despite what I've seen and learned about Finnick's deceit, Dr. Celsus's words send a bolt of fear through me, for his sake. Even after his lies, the Capitol will always be the greater evil - a black net I wouldn't wish anyone to get caught in.

The air in the common room cloys around me till it's too thick to swallow. I make it out of the office and into the hallway, tumbling my chair backward, before Celsus can push another pill at me or even speak. I want to feel the hysteria tremble through my limbs. I deserve it for being so stupid. Finnick and I never made sense. The lies turn my stomach, stealing every happy memory I've ever had. And the horrifying, humiliating fear that I still feel for his safety, even though he left me here alone, burns me with shame for my own weakness.

The cart's still in the middle of the hallway. The sight of it, and it's meaning, makes me gag. It's then that I become sensible of the photo still in my hand.

I crumple it in my hands and flee to my room.

* * *

**TBC**


	9. Exitlude

A/N: Happy New Year! Ten thousand apologies for the amount of time it's taken to update Fannie. This story now has my full attention! You all get one of Blue Boy's kittens for your patience.

This chapter is rated a strong T/mild M for expressive language and fisticuffs. Ye be warned.

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

**Exitlude**

_We hope you enjoyed your stay,_

_It's good to have you with us_

_Even if it's just for the day. _

_We hope you enjoy your stay._

_Outside the sun is shining_

_Seems like heaven ain't far away - Exitlude_, The Killers

* * *

_Annie's POV_

The next morning Abel leans against my door, apologizing. Sort of.

"Look, Annie, I drank a little too much. You ran into me at a bad time." His knuckles rap on door for the third time. "Won't you open the door?"

"No," I call from the other side where I'm slumped against the bedpost. My legs dangle over the edge of the mattress. I've been here all night. Thinking. Trying not to think. The photograph lies crumpled beside me.

"We have a mandatory viewing today in thirty minutes. I hoped you'd watch it with me," he says with his most pleasant voice, "like old times."

Ha. Old times. The harrowing weeks of the Quarter Quell do not constitute old times.

"You betrayed me…and _Finnick_," I add, though it makes my heart squeeze painfully. I know the name still rankles Abel to hear it. It's less effective than I'd like, given how badly it effects me as well.

"And Finnick betrayed _you_, so we're both a couple of douche bags," he gripes. "So what? At least I'm here."

"You threatened me and called me crazy."

"Drunk. Hello," he grumbles. "I already apologized for that."

"You shouldn't spend so much time drinking, Abel," I snap. I'm tired, nauseous and dizzy as the drugs leave my system, and for some reason it feels good to tear into Abel. I've never felt this way before. I cross the room to the door and fling it open. "What have you got to get drunk about anyway?"

"Whatever."

Abel stumbles backward in surprise as I emerge from the room. I prod his perpetually bare chest with my finger. "You are just a…a _slob_, Abel."

A short, punchy laugh escapes his lips. Ugh. It makes me angrier. Finnick could have come up with something more insulting. Stop thinking about Finnick. Stop.

A condescending smirk spreads over his face. "I'm a slob? You look like you spent the night in a haystack and decided to wear it on your head," Abel quips, shaking his head. "Wow. Flying out of your room like a bat out of hell. Pretty impressive."

All right, yes. I'm still in my nightgown. I haven't combed my hair. My eyes have red rings around them. I'm exactly the mess I was before Finnick started bringing sanity and order to my life. I love him. Shut up.

I take my frustration out on Abel, pounding my fist into the side of his ribcage.

"Ack, sheesh," he cries, grabbing for my hand and missing. "Whatever meds they're putting you on now, I don't like them," he says, unimpressed but also annoyed.

"This isn't the meds talking," I snarl. Maybe. Maybe withdrawal makes you mean. I feel mean. For the first time in my life – ever – I want someone to feel as awful as I do. Who better than cruel, disgusting Abel?

"So what's this? A heart to heart? You're going to tell me what you think of me finally?" he taunts.

That's when I catch a whiff of his breath. "You're still drunk!" I accuse.

Abel shrugs. "Well, I had a drink for breakfast."

"_Abel_." I take a deep breath and exhale sharply. "I don't _like_ you."

"Ah, you're going to have to try better than that. Remember, I'm a hardened old meanie and a drunk, to boot."

His taunting deflates my anger. Somewhat. I can't compete with him really. The emotional energy that propelled me out of my room leaves me standing out here with no protection. I hang my head. An involuntary sniffle puts an end to my valiant stand against Abel. And he knows it.

"Well, come along. TV time. Public announcement. Hurrah." He snags my wrist and tries to haul me down the hallway, but I dig in my heels.

"I don't want to watch any more television. I don't care what anyone…says…stop…ow..dragging me." My voice reaches a new pitch the further we get from the safety of my cave.

The sound of the door opening in the stairwell next to the elevator and the muffled pat of shoes over the carpeting cause us both to pause for a moment. Then Abel gets a wicked gleam in his eyes.

"Behave, Annie," he threatens me like I'm a child, "or I'll sick Dr. Celsus on you."

Panic jolts through me. Dr. Celsus shouldn't be here right now. I kick Abel's shins and try to bolt, but he's twice as heavy as I am, which leaves little contest. I'm halfway down the hall to the common room that still serves as Dr. Celsus's office.

"I don't want to talk to Celsus!" I cry, squirming even harder to get away. "You lied about the public announcement. You _tricked_ me!"

"What? No. There really is a program."

"Then who's coming from the elevator room?" He looks over my shoulder and I take the chance to stomp on his foot. I should have chosen a more tender area because he barely notices.

"Cut that out, Annie," he growls, grabbing my waist so he can propel me toward the common room. He tries going first, backing into the room and dragging me after him. We're both acting like children now. A big, stupid drunk kid bullying a panicky younger one. He's partly inside when I get one last glimpse down the hall to the elevator room where the sound came from.

I hear a _shunk_ that reminds me of metal on bone and a white-clad body slumps through the doorway: The security guard assigned to our floor.

A gasp escapes my lips as a shock of bronze hair belonging to a long, lean Avox materializes at the end of the hallway, standing over the body. The Avox's head turns in the direction of the sound. Our eyes meet.

Impossible. So impossible. It's the withdrawal…it must be. My mind playing tricks on me.

But I can't fabricate eyes like that, wide set in a Grecian face, emerald green and so sharp you could cut yourself to pieces on them.

"Fff…" My lips feel numb, incapable of forming words.

How is he here? Why is he dressed like an Avox? Why? Horror bubbles up through me. He's been captured and enslaved. He's alive. He has been all the time – and Dr. Celsus spoke truly. Which means…thoughts like these shuttle through my mind in a whirlwind.

Abel steps back into the hallway, following my line of vision to see what's up. "What's this about?" he demands, glancing at the downed Peacekeeper, then at my white face. "Now, Annie…."

I shake my head, unable to believe that he doesn't recognize who is standing right in front of his eyes.

"It's just an Avox," Abel scoffs, then turns back to the intruder, whose presence fills the corridor like a specter. "What the hell are you doing?" Abel demands to know, pointing at the fallen Peacekeeper. "They'll cut of more than your tongue for that, brah."

"They can try."

The voice, fuller than I remember, starts both Abel and I. And then Able _really _sees the intruder, now that he's heard him. His transformation is startling. The color drains from his face; his upper body goes slack, dropping his hold on my waist. "Oh shit, brah."

Finnick's eyes flick from me to Abel and stay there, pinning him with venomous green eyes.

"Abel."

The single word sounds like a death knell. Confusion sweeps over me as Finnick takes a step toward us. Then another. Abel seems to shrink under Finnick's gaze as he draws nearer.

"Let her go."

Abel must realize that Finnick won't do anything to him as long as he's got me as a shield. His hold on my waist tightens painful as his fingers dig into the tender skin on my sides, bruising me. A small cry of pain escapes my lips. Finnick flinches.

"I'm going to fucking kill you." Finnick's voice is low and casual, but it makes him sound unhinged given the words tripping from his lips. Mags never let him use that language.

"Uh." Abel grabs my arms and pushes me into Finnick, knocking the air out of me. Then he takes off down the hall while Finnick stumbles over me. His arms reach out to break my fall. The feel of his hands on my arms after so many weeks apart makes my body hum like a traitor. And then he's gone, leaving me shivering alone against the wall. I slide down to the carpet, wondering if I'm dreaming.

…

Finnick catches up with Abel before he reaches the end of the corridor, yanking him off his feet by the shoulder and decking him with one viper-like fist. The sound of flesh striking flesh makes my stomach churn. I've never seen this side of Finnick in real life. Frenetic and utterly capable of tearing Abel limb from limb and _driven_ to do it. It feels odd, like I must be watching this confrontation play out on the television - just a recap of his Games. He's always been celebrated for his cold-blooded killing, though I've never seen that side of him…until now.

Abel collapses on the floor after another strike, nose bleeding. He scrambles back on his hands and feet like an inside-out spider.

"D-don't, Finnick," he implores, using an arm to shield himself while Finnick looms over his prone form.

"I trusted you to keep Annie safe," Finnick says with the same deceptive tone as the calm before a squall, though his voice drops an octave when he reaches my name. "But you sold her first thing after the Quarter Quell."

The whole tone doesn't fit with the tightly strung set of his shoulders, making my heart race with uncertainty. What will he do? The muscles in his back ripple beneath the cloth of his uniform with each calculated move. I know how strong he is, having felt those muscles move beneath my own hands on very different occasions. Abel wouldn't stand a chance unarmed, not after years of drinking and inactivity.

"I had to – the district went crazy," Abel whimpers like a whipped cur. "We could all have been killed. I saved her…"

"You did it to save your own stinking neck," Finnick growls, losing his cool facade. "Worthless, sniveling coward."

"No—"

Abel's denial infuriates him more. An animal growl tears itself from Finnick's throat. He grabs Abel, slamming him against the wall. _"Shut up!" _he roars.

Abel gags as Finnick's hands wraps around his neck. His hands scrabble up Finnick's arms, reaching for release. "Alright, ack-ah, alright!" he chokes out.

"Finnick!"

That's my voice I hear, though I don't recall consciously calling out. Finnick freezes, turning his head just barely in my direction. He stares at me through feral eyes set in a cold, unrecognizable face. His lips press in a grim line beneath flared nostrils.

My heart seizes up a new emotion that Finnick has never inspired in me before. Fear.

The taste of blood fills my mouth, a coppery warning to stop biting my tongue. I squeeze my hands together over my chest, but try not to show my fear by cowering away. Slowly, his manic expressing softens into something more familiar, like he forgot all about me and recognition is just starting to come over him.

"Annie…"

"Look out!"

Abel used the distraction to maneuver his arms between Finnick's, breaking the hold with a scissor-like movement. His fists darts upward, catching Finnick on the chin, then his other fist plants a punch square in the mouth.

Finnick stumbles backward, but quickly recovers, sucker punching Abel where he's left his stomach unprotected.

Abel doubles over as the air in his stomach whooshes out. Finnick's knee breaks his nose, sending Abel to the ground again. The crunch causes bile to rise in my throat.

I feel paralyzed. Unable to think. Not knowing what to do. Sitting by uselessly in my wrinkled nightgown as Finnick pushes Abel back against the wall, recommencing his attempt to choke the life out of him.

Finnick will murder Abel right in front of me, I realize, as Abel's eyes seem on the verge of popping out. I can't let that happen.

"Finnick, stop." My voice cracks. "You'll kill him."

"Yeah?" Finnick says through gritted teeth, eyes firmly fixed on Abel. Blood dribbles from his cut lip to his chin in a thin line. He looks awful. "That's the point."

I don't know why I care, after what I've learned about Finnick's true nature. But I can't let him stain his hands with Abel's death. Even after all he's done to me, I can't help caring if he damages his soul by taking another life.

My legs cooperate finally. Bracing my back against the wall, I rise to my full height, stumbling down the hall to Finnick's side. Abel doesn't even register that I'm there. He's dying.

Even after all the wrong Abel's done, I can't bear for it to happen. Not like this.

"Stop, please." Finnick doesn't acknowledge me at all. I grab his bicep, but my matchstick arms can't compete with his. "_Please_," I beg.

Only the whites of Abel's eyes show as he turns gray, then blue. A sound comes from his body, like a rattle. A familiar sound that transports me to another time. Other deaths.

My peripheral vision goes first. Then the feeling in my knees, like melting. When I slump forward against Finnick, it feels like it's happening to someone else.

…

Finnick caught me when I fell. Abel lies on the carpet, unmoving. In the few seconds I lost consciousness, Finnick's eyes have returned to normal, looking relieved as they meet mine, rather than manic. His concern tastes sour in my mouth.

I put up a pathetic struggle that only makes his grip on my torso stronger. "Shh, Annie. You're overexcited."

He's kneeling next to the prone body while I lie in his arms. Of course I'm overexcited. My head's spinning where it rests against his chest. I can hear his heart beating. None of it means the same thing it did the last time he held me.

"Leo!" he calls, with a new note in his voice…fear?

A stranger comes into view by the elevator room, nearly tripping over the Peacekeeper's boots. "Whoops, Er. Yes?"

Finnick points at Abel. "Take care of that guy for me."

The man, also dressed like an Avox, approaches. He nudges Abel with his foot. "You sure? He's still alive. You said you wanted to take care of him yourself."

"I've got my hands full," Finnick replies. "Throw him in a room somewhere. We need to leave."

"Sure thing." The man, Leo, looks at me uncertainly. "Is she all right?"

I cringe away from him. Unfortunately, the only place to go is closer to Finnick. "Annie, it's okay. This is Leo. He's a friend from the Underground."

The what? The stranger gives me a slight wave.

"We're going to break you out of here and take you as far from the Capitol as possible. Where you'll be safe," Finnick soothes. "Do you think you can stand?"

I nod slowly.

Finnick helps me to my feet. It does wonders for my head, but not in a good way.

And then he kisses me. My eyes fly open with shock, then close tight as our bodies fit together in a way that's perfect and familiar. A protesting moan gets lost in my throat as the familiar warmth of his lips over mine sends my self-preservation skittering in the four cardinal directions.

My lips feel bruised when he releases me. His own have started to bleed worse. He dabs at it quickly with his cuff, but he doesn't pull away. He hugs me closer, whispering my name against my ear. A wealth of meaning lies in each vowel and consonant, like they're the only ones left in the language. "I wasn't sure we'd ever see each other again," he confesses in a manner that would have filled me with tenderness in another life.

_See, I always got the impression that Finnick liked weak, helpless little things. Duping them into caring about him, that's Finnick's game to keep himself amused when he's out of invites from the lusher pickings._

Abel's words fly to the forefront of my mind even as Finnick's arms send a thrill through my stomach.

_You're still a fool, Annie Cresta_, I chide myself for reacting to him after all that I know.

Hot tears threatened to spill over as shame washes through me. I push Finnick away without a word. His eyebrows knit together for a moment, but then he sees his partner and probably figures I'm embarrassed. I don't correct him. Not yet.

"Here, take these." Leo tosses Finnick a small bundle in a canvas pouch, similar to the ones we keep our ponchos in, which he had been clipped to his belt.

"Thanks," Finnick replies. Then he turns to me. "You need to change into an Avox uniform."

Finnick doesn't have to ask where which room I stay in. He leads me to the girl tribute's bedroom and ushers me inside. "Put these on," he orders, pulling out the Avox-style tunic, belt and trousers. I gaze in amazement at the wrinkled garments, wondering how they managed to squeeze all that fabric into that tiny pouch.

I take them over to the bed, lying them out before removing my nightgown. The forgotten photo stares up at me with Technicolor conviction from its place among the folds of the crumpled bedspread.

How can I possibly cooperate with Finnick knowing what he's done? What he's like? After letting me believe he had been killed or kidnapped?

For making me believe that he loved me.

"Do you need help?" he asks as he pockets the pill bottles from the dresser. I wonder why he's bothering with those. At any rate, I refuse to take any more of Celsus's prescriptions.

"No," I murmur stiffly. "Please turn around while I undress."

Another confused expression passes over Finnick's face. It's not the first time I've changed out of a nightgown in his presence, but I've never had to ask him to respect my privacy. He shrugs and goes back to looking through the drawers for my things. While his back remains turned, I tuck the photo into the pocket of the Avox uniform. No matter what he is or how he's treated me, Finnick's "underground" must be a better alternative to the Capitol. So I will cooperate. To a point. Once we reach…wherever that is…I'll have to tell Finnick what I know about him. And then find a quiet place to forget that I'm in love with him.

Or where I can be forgotten. That seems the more likely of the two.

I pull the nightgown over my head, surprised by my ability to function as though I'm not falling apart inside. Perhaps the mundane activity of changing clothes, pulling on the trousers, then the tunic, are keeping me from cracking down the middle. My fingers try to rake out the worst of the snarls in my hair, but it's hopeless. I don't know where my brush ran off to.

In the meantime, Finnick has made his way to the closet. The doors slide open, revealing the intricate shelving system and the plethora of clothing. But his eyes land on the same article as mine.

Cinna's wedding gown.

Something changes in Finnick's face. The skin tightens around his eyes and his nose looks pinched like he might cry. Finnick does, sometimes. He reaches out to touch the material with reverent awe, gently running the material between his fingers like it might disintegrate, but he can't help himself.

My throat constricts, watching him. All my hopes rested on that gown. I didn't quite know it until now. It symbolized so much.

"Do you like it?" he whispers, his voice husky with emotion. His eyes leave the gown to find mine. I nod, unable to speak. It's the truth, even if it hurts. I realize he's playing the game and I'm still falling.

"It's one of the last things Cinna made before…" His voice seems to be having the same trouble as mine. "How did you manage to hold onto it?" he asks.

"You told me to hold onto it for you," I answer simply. "I just didn't let go. All the way here."

A small smile slides over his face.

Finnick gathers the dress from the hanger. "How are we going to rescue you, too?" he pretends to ask the dress.

Maybe it's the Avox clothes, but the idea comes to me quickly. "Gather the sheets from the beds. Make it look like we're taking the laundry down."

Finnick's eyes flash over me appreciatively. "That's not half bad," he praises.

He helps me pull up the ultra-white flat sheets, the fitted sheet beneath that, and then the mattress pad. Then he wraps the dress inside of the pile. "We'll have to do the same with the other rooms so that we all have a bundle."

I nod wordlessly, taking the pile from him.

"Anything else in here belong to you?" he asks at the door.

"No."

He holds to door for me. "Then let's shimmy."

…

Leo dragged Abel's body away in the time it took for us to sweep through my bedroom.

Finnick directs us toward the other rooms to make more bundles of sheets. He follows me into the male tribute's bedroom, for which I am grateful. The male mentor's sheets – Abel's – probably are best left untouched.

In a minute, we have a new bundle. My chest seizes when Finnick catches me off-guard by pulling a pistol from the back of his pants and shoves it through the bundle, effectively disguising the weapon in his hand.

I'm amazed he didn't simply shoot Abel, though perhaps the physical assault might have felt satisfying.

"Hopefully I won't have to use it," he tells me indifferently.

We meet Leo in the hallway with his sheets. I follow them to the elevator room and they surprise me by striding past the elevators to the stairwell beyond.

"We're playing Avox, so we have to use their entrances," he explains. "Besides, there's a big to-do in the lobby."

"Is there?"

"Yeah," says Leo, as he and Finnick exchange weighted glances. "They're televising Peeta Mellark renouncing the rebellion."

Oh my. So much has happened in my own head, on this floor, that I haven't paid any attention to what has been happening in the outside world. Just the few things that Dr. Celsus has told me. I feel incredibly small all of a sudden, and a little afraid.

I pause on the landing, feeling uncertain. Finnick glances back at me from three or four steps down. "Come on, Annie," he encourages. "You go between Leo and I."

I take a deep breath and force myself to place my foot on the first step. Then the next until I've passed Finnick. Leo's already on the next bend in the stairs, calmly watching the two of us. He gives me a reassuring smile. I don't know him at all, but he seems nice.

But then, I'm impressionable. The return smile sticks a little, not reaching my eyes.

…

The only noise in the stairwell comes from our feet on the steps. We pass real Avoxes between the different floors. They eye our bundles curiously, but no one stops us. I wonder if they have a language of their own or some way to communicate with one another. They must. But I can't recognize anything as we pass them by.

Along the way, different men and women emerge from doorways. They have a different uniform and can speak.

Quite well.

They must be in charge of the Avoxes, keeping them in line, giving orders. On Floor One, one of the overseers cuts in front of Leo on the way down.

"Hold there," he barks.

We freeze. I feel Finnick's chest against my back, his bundle tucked against his hip. I clutch mine protectively over my chest.

The overseer eyes us dispassionately. "You three, what's all this. Laundry day isn't until Sunday."

He strikes Leo over the head. "Ow, geez," he grumbles. And then his eyes pop as the overseer turns pale, then purple. He opens his mouth to call out.

And then Finnick shoots him.

A scream tears from my lips as blood splatters the wall in front of us and the man's corpse crumples at Leo's feet.

"Not good." Leo winces. "Sorry."

"Hustle," Finnick orders. He drops his sheets and the Avox pretense, but not the gun. I back away from him, bumping into the railing.

The sound of feet running on the stairs behind and before us echoes through the stairwell. Finnick takes my bundle, then bends down in front of me so quickly I don't have time to grab the rail before his arm encircles my legs, hosting me over his shoulder.

This is the second most terrifying ride of my life. My screams follow us down the stairwell, along with rushing footsteps. My body jostles painfully as his shoulder digs into my stomach. Any second I'm sure he'll lose his footing or his hold on me and we'll tumble the rest of the way down, breaking our heads.

Leo covers from behind, as the steps grow closer and voices add to the mix. Have Peacekeepers been alerted to my disappearance? Have they found Abel?

The cries die in my throat. If they catch up or cut us off, I can't bare to think of what will happen.

Finnick reaches the bottom of the stairs, where a door stands propped open. He kicks it open wider, running through it just as I see boots rounding the landing above.

Leo follows, closing the door and shooting the handle off. We're in some sort of basement storage room. It's dimly lit. Boxes and old relics covered in dusty sheets give the place a forgotten air. I slip from Finnick's shoulder. He barely gives me time to rub my bruised stomach before his fingers lace through mine, pulling me behind him at a run. He maneuvers through the stacks. I see other doors leading into this room from other parts of the building.

We reach the end of the room just as a door burst open on the side we came from. Our pursuers.

Leo shoves a few boxes aside before grabbing at a hidden metal ring in the floor. It reveals a hatch beneath.

Finnick's hand feels warm on my stiff shoulders as he guides me toward the hole. "You have to go down, Annie," he murmurs.

I gape at the dark hole, listening to the murky drip of moisture. Confined space. Water. "I can't," I whimper.

"You go first, Finnick. You'll feel better if he's down there, won't you?" Leo asks me gently.

It's Leo's kindness, not Finnick's presence, which helps fill me with resolve. "All right."

Finnick nods and starts down the primitive ladder, which looks like it's made from horseshoe-shaped rebars, anchored in the cement. His head disappears into the darkness and then a soft _splosh_ tells us that he's reached the bottom.

"Your turn," Leo says. He helps me climb down the first few rungs. Moist, squalid air causes me to breathe through my mouth as blackness envelopes me. Then the rungs give out and I dangle for a moment before letting go. Water splashes around my ankles. I feel Finnick's hand scrabbling over my arm, searching. Leo follows through the patch of light above. It's the last thing I see before he closes the hatch over his head.

A small light penetrates the darkness, coming from a narrow tube in Leo's hand. A tiny flashlight. It's not much, but enough for us to walk on.

The sewer dead ends at a set of doors that turn out to be an elevator. We crowd inside, then brace against the railing as the rickety contraption descends deeper into the earth. When it stops, the cabin opens onto a precarious platform of metal. I can't see what is underneath. Our footsteps echo ominously in the empty space. I wonder how Finnick knows about this place, which is a dangerous thought. It goes to show just how little I know of him and his activities outside of Four over the past five years.

Eventually, the scaffolding meets solid ground. Finnick steers me down a narrow corridor which opens up into an underground cavern. Immediately I feel trapped – at least the Training Center had windows, even if they couldn't open.

"What is this place?" I gasp. "The underground you told me about?"

What a horrible place! Dank. Colorless. Cold. And full of hovercrafts. Nothing like Four. It's enormous compared to Mags's cave. I feel a pang of homesickness for our special place. Only, now its memory is tinged. I guess it felt special only to me.

"One of the undergrounds," says Leo. "But not _the _Underground. That's where we're taking you."

He's not kidding. They lead me to a hovercraft – I haven't been in one in so long, but my heart races with the same agitation I felt on the day I flew out with my designer to the 70th Hunger Games arena. I try steeling my spine, but watching Finnick stow the pile of sheets containing my dress under a seat is simply too much for me.

I make Finnick face me again, pleading, "I want to go home."

He wipes his bottom lip, frowning at the blood on his cuff before looking at me. "We can't possibly go back to Four now," he says slowly.

"I'll go myself," I choke, stepping away from him. "I don't want you to take me to a strange, new place."

Finnick imprisons my hand between his. "I'm sorry, Annie. You can't go home."

* * *

**TBC**


	10. Swallowed in the Sea

**A/N**: As this story follows the line of Redux, this chapter is based on Ch. 14 of that story. However, I've condensed and changed details as I saw fit.

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

**Swallowed in the Sea**

"You put me on a line and hung me out to dry,

and darling that's when I decided to go see.

You cut me down to size and opened up my eyes,

made me realize what I could not see." - Coldplay

* * *

_Finnick's POV_

The hovercraft carries us away from the Capitol. Even though we're on the safe side of the mountain range, I can't help but feel like we've left something important there. Something isn't right. I sense reluctance from Annie that hasn't been there since the early days of our relationship.

After helping with Peeta, whose leg was wounded during the escape, I slip into the seat next to Annie. She's staring at Peeta's bloodied leg, stretched out on the aisle floor next to us.

"Do you need anything?" I ask.

She shakes her head. Her eyes look glazed over, not an encouraging sign.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No, Finnick."

We sit in awkward silence. Eventually, Annie falls asleep against the window. I take the opportunity to look at the meds I took from her room. The names don't mean a whole lot to me. They're long and impossible to pronounce, but the list of side effects printed in miniscule font point is not encouraging. I wonder if she bothered to read the labels for herself. An uncomfortable realization dawns on me, that perhaps Mags and I made her too dependent on our judgment and not enough on her own. I guess I always assumed she'd have one of us around.

I put the pills away again, wondering who prescribed them to her. Then I take a cue from Annie and allow myself to sleep. Maybe some answers will come to me in my dreams.

…

Leo's voice wakes me after what feels like seconds. I shake my cloud-filled head and try to orient myself.

"We've reached Thirteen's airspace, folks," he announces. "I sorta thought we'd hear from base by now, but who knows."

"Did you try to radio them?" Nevada asks, crouching behind Haymitch's seat, as if she could see the airwaves from that position.

Leo hesitates. "Yeah...but they didn't respond."

"Why wouldn't they respond?" Gale asks.

Nevada cries out just then, causing Annie to wake up with a start. Without hesitation or thought I take her hand and squeeze it. Her fingers wrap around mine, sending a pleasant hum through my body that I've missed for so long. Images of our kisses flicker behind my eyes and I badly want to touch her lips despite everything that's going on.

"Now, it's not something to panic about, necessarily," Leo tries to placate, taking his eyes off the sky to look at Nev's stricken face.

But I get my mind off of Annie's lips, following Nev's line of vision, realizing that she's not thinking about the radio. The clear sky over Thirteen's young forest pops as a fleet of hovercrafts materialize out of thin air. My hand tightens over Annie's as a new, unexpected danger suddenly comes upon us.

"Ow," she says softly.

"Sorry." I loosen my hold, but never let go.

Leo swears. The skyline shifts abruptly as Leo cuts to the side, avoiding a collision with one of the Capitol hovercrafts. The movement sends Peeta rolling into the seat legs. Annie gasps as he hits his head.

We watch helplessly when the bombs drop from the hatches of the enemy aircraft, exploding in orange flashes. Black smoke rises out of the trees below us, drawing a line to the mouth of the Underground. A bad bit of luck.

Leo's angled the Besra out of the way of the enemy fleet. A hovercraft bearing the Jabberjay symbol, a black bird swooping in on a smaller bird, is shot out of the sky by the arrival of a small fleet of Mockingjay hovercrafts that have emerged from the underground hangars. The hangars, partitioned out of the natural caverns, follow the spine of the ridge, forming Level 1. When open, the hangars look out over the forested vale below the ridge. The old graphite mines became Levels 2 through 13 and are truly underground.

"Where can we go?" I ask grimly. "Either side might shoot us down if we try to enter the Underground."

Leo and Nev exchange glances. "We know a place northwest of here, another sort of ridge or shield," she tells us. "We've used it as a rendezvous point before. There's a possibility that Jabberjays might know about it…but it's also the most likely place that we'll find help if there's any to be had."

"Take us there, then," says Haymitch.

…

Hawthorne makes a beeline for the forest once the hovercraft touches down. Drat. That was my plan as well. How can I have the sort of celebratory reunion with her that I'd been dreaming about if he's lurking behind any tree? What I want is to drag Annie off behind the trees of this odd, bowl-shaped clearing and really talk with her. And whatever else happens to happen. But Effie Trinket takes over, organizing everyone into degrees of injury and then assigning a buddy system. The most wounded remain on the hovercraft, where Peeta remains.

Effie eyes Annie and I like fish in the market. "Split lip. Anything else?" she asks me.

"No."

She turns to Annie. "And you?"

"I'm not injured," says Annie. Maybe not, but she looks listless. When I parted from her in District Four on our last night in the cave, she was full of life. Healthy. Responsive. Nothing like this.

"Are you sure, Annie?" I murmur in her ear.

Her eyes spark. I feel her shoulder slide across my chest as she turns away from me. "I told you I am uninjured." Then she says to Effie, "I'll wait with Peeta in the hovercraft. You have enough for pairs, so you won't need me."

"But Annie, I thought—" I start to say.

"That's what I want, Finnick." Her back faces me as she speaks. Never, ever have we spoken to one another this way.

Effie slips away at some point. I follow Annie to the Besra. "I hoped we could talk. A lot has happened since June."

"You need someone to look at your lip," is all she says as she disappears into the fuselage. I stand outside staring into the dark interior. The sounds of Annie and Peeta's whispers offer only white noise.

Irritation flashes through me. Usually I'm pretty sharp when it comes to people. So why did it take me so long to realize that Annie's avoiding me?

And why can't I figure out why?

As I back away, I hold onto the irritation as long as I can because it's better than feeling something else infinitely more painful.

…

"Where'd Annie go?" Nevada asks after she brings Hawthorne back to the group.

I glare at the hovercraft gloomily. "With Peeta." I can't believe she'd rather be with him. What could Peeta Mellark possibly posses that would make his presence more scintillating than mine? Annie only just met him. And she's engaged to _me_. After a period of weeks when we're finally together again, she suddenly can't stand to be near me. It makes no sense. Does she blame me for Mags? Does she think I took too long to rescue her?

I haven't a damn clue.

"I thought that's where Effie's sticking the really badly injured," says Gale with that perpetually unenthused voice of his.

"Annie's looking after Peeta," I reply shortly. It's not really anyone's business. I hear the curiosity in their voices, wondering why we're not joined at the hip after all we've been through. Yeah. It's not the reunion I'd hoped for.

"Everybody else in pairs," Effie orders.

The blood on my swollen lip dried up a while ago. I don't need medical attention. I don't need a partner to tell me that there's nothing wrong with it but what a day or two of _not_ getting punched in the face can't cure. But Leo hands me a wad of gauze anyway. I have nothing to do with it, so I hand it back to Leo. "We're done over here," I announce dryly.

And then we wait for everyone else to finish up, wondering what to do next. In my head, I'm considering all the possibilities for survival outside of Thirteen. I can construct nets, baskets, even weapons maybe that can help us survive. Water will be tricky because we'll need to find a way to clean it. The sheets from Annie's bed will provide some kind of cover, though nothing substantial. Perhaps Hawthorne will have more ideas. He's not a victor, but he's a hunter, I guess.

What will we do with Peeta? That's the hardest question. He'll die at this rate. We've slowed it down, but he's in bad shape. How much of a risk will it take to get him underground, to proper medical attention?

Is it worth risking Annie's safety to try saving Peeta?

I don't know. For weeks keeping Peeta alive filled my head. To protect the Mockingjay we had to protect her fellow tribute. Their lives meant the success of the rebellion. When does this part of my mission end? Has it already? I didn't plan on seeing Annie again. But now she's here, messed up, and I don't know what to do.

As if to taunt me, a mockingjay trills in the trees. It's voice is shrill and accusing. I turn away from the direction of the sound, but then another adds its voice to the birdsong. And another and another until the forest is full of…warning.

…

The forest boils in the wind coming from a fleet of hovercrafts materializing out of the darkening sky. Hawthorne's on his feet, with me at his heels, as we both have people depending on us inside of the hovercraft. Annie doesn't have time to ask questions before I pluck her out of the fuselage.

Haymitch arrives purple-faced, helping Gale lift Peeta off the seats. Leo and Nev grab objects out of the cockpit before following Effie, Annie and I into the trees.

We scramble for three quarters of a mile and hit a rock escarpment, blocking our westward progression. We could follow the curve of the ridge southeast, but that would bring us around to the mouth of the Underground. North would take us back to the Besra and the fleet gathering there.

"We should investigate first," says Nevada, between breaths. "Find out who those hovercrafts really belong to. I'll go myself."

"Should we take a vote?" Leo asks diplomatically.

"What's the point?" she grouses. "That could be Pike."

"But how would he know about this place?" Leo asks.

"He has Takei."

We listen to them debate back and forth, dropping names we've never heard, we decide to take a vote amongst ourselves. Effie and I suggest that we move on and put as much distance between us and any possible danger. Gale is in favor of investigating the situation first.

"So, I guess it's up to me," says Haymitch. "Hell, I'm up for taking a look. I don't fancy walking back to Thirteen anyway."

"That just makes the vote even, Haymitch," Effie snipes.

"I'm voting for Peeta too," he retorts with a smirk, making Effie glare at him. "Mentor's privilege."

"No one asked for my vote," says a small voice.

I look down at Annie's ashen face. I guess I took fiancé privileges and voted for her, too. For her safety. I can't risk her. "But Annie…," I start to reason.

"I can make my own decisions, Finnick," she murmurs. Her voice is gentle but the subtle accusation stings. Nobody else may notice, but I catch the stubborn tilt of her chin. "I say we try to find out if those are friends or not."

Of course she can make her own decisions. But this isn't the time for her to make foolish ones. I want to shake some sense into her. I'm not trying to take her independence, just doing my duty to keep her alive.

I wrestle with myself, wanting to reason with her and doubting it will work. So I shrug, admitting defeat. "I guess Effie and I are outnumbered."

...

Gale and Nevada take off, leaving us to wait by the rock wall. I start to pace. The steps are familiar and comforting in their own brain-deadening way. It's a habit I've picked up since Katniss, Beetee and I were pulled from the arena.

"Sit down, Finnick," Haymitch growls. "You're driving me nuts."

I shoot him a look which plainly tells him not to mess with me right now. He doesn't. But I feel Annie's eyes following me now too.

I walk past Peeta, stopping to get a good look at him while he dozes. For an unsettling second I am confused. Are we waiting for Jabberjays to attack us or monkeys?

Was it worth it, Mags?

She always had a very clear idea about the possibilities and what could and most likely would go wrong. Not like me. I always just hoped that the possibilities would work out for good.

My restless feet need to move again.

…

Two possibly bad outcomes turn out to be impossibly good.

One, Nevada collects us with news that a Mockingjay fleet has gathered in our clearing.

Two, our dead pilot comes back from the dead. Quintus shows up, not only with himself, but with information about the battle for the Underground.

After a prolonged and possibly touching reunion between the pilot and a very shocked Nevada, we learn that Quintus took the liberty of scoping out the situation, as far as he could observe, of the Underground before searching for Pike. While the Jabberjays were able to scatter Pike's fleet during the air strike, the Mockingjays now have the advantage over their sitting fleet.

We make a plan now that we have a fighting chance. Part of me still wants to follow the instinct to run off into the wilderness with Annie, but it's not an option anymore. Except for a coward, which I am not. Besides, Annie made it clear that she doesn't want to follow me.

While Pike leads the air assault on the enemy hovercrafts, our rescue team will combine with a contingent of Pike's soldiers to infiltrate and secure the first level. Leo will lead us through a hidden entrance that Nevada and Quintus suggest.

Gale, Leo and I, join others from Pike's fleet to storm the Underground. First, Pike suggests that we change out of our Peacekeeper gear, providing us with spare Mockingjay jumpsuits. They supply us with fresh guns and ammo.

While the others suit up, I locate Annie, pulling her aside to say goodbye. I don't let go of her hand, though her fingers are slack, not holding back.

"I'm pulling out soon," I tell her.

Annie nods, looking at her feet.

"Keep safe."

"Of course."

I lean in to give her a kiss, but she turns away at the last second. My lips graze her cheek. It feels cold.

I back up a step, feeling like she's kicked me in the gut. What have I done to deserve this? It's not frustration I feel anymore, it's betrayal. I drop her hand.

"Pretend to miss me," I mutter, giving her a wide berth as I step around her.

For a second she looks stricken, but it might be a trick of the fading light.

…

Leo lands the Besra long before we reach the Underground. We meet another team made up of Pike's soldiers and one of the soldiers radios Pike to let him know we're moving forward. Leo leads the way, since this is his home turf.

The climb through the forest rises sharply into a ledge, or a natural causeway. It's like scrambling over an enormous tree root, only belonging to the mountain. Leo indicates that we're to follow him along the causeway, toward the base of the mountain. The ledge widens out before it comes to that, fortunately, and the trees thin out at the bottom of a narrow stone stair cut into the mountain. Steps wind up the side of the ridge above the hangar, covered by large, scrubby junipers that block the view of it from either side.

The stairway doesn't surprise the underlanders, of course, but Hawthorne and I look at it with dismay.

"Last stretch," Leo promises, leading us up.

"Is this a secret or will enemy soldiers be waiting on the other side?" I ask.

"Not really, if you know to look for it," he says simply. "Which they won't."

Gale groans next to me.

My calves are burning and so are my lungs when we get to the top. We all smell of juniper and sweat and dirt. Leo stares at a pad hidden behind a bunch of creepers. "It requires a password."

"Don't you know it?" Gale asks.

"Yes, but using it may alert the Jabberjays that the door has been used. I don't know how much they've taken over inside or if they're watching the security panels," he says. "I'll have to disable the door completely."

We take a breather while he fiddles with the wires. He zaps himself a few times. "Ouch." He sucks on his fingers then resumes his work.

"Couldn't we just shoot it?" I grumble as this goes on. I don't want to spend the rest of my life on this stairway.

"Not without anyone else hearing the report," Hawthorne reminds me with a reasonable voice that rankles my nerves. Why can't the world be unreasonable with me? I push my hair out of my eyes, even though it wasn't bothering me, and let the subject drop. We'll have targets for our guns soon enough.

The cease in activity brings other problems besides impatience. Annie's face floats in blankness of my closed eyes, looking wan and conflicted. That's the face she wore in the Training Center while we gathered her things from her bedroom. Why hadn't it registered with me before? I guess I was too elated by having her back to notice.

Stop thinking about Annie.

"Aha!" Leo gloats as the circuits fall from his hands and the door pops open. For some reason that sound cheers me up considerably. No more waiting!

I clap Leo on the back, all but pushing him out of the way. "Well done. Let's get off this awful stair."

But the staircase isn't done. As soon as I stride across the threshold I see the steps leading down into the other levels. I glower at them until Leo points out a steel door at the first bend in the stairs.

"That's the door we want," he says.

Gale and I shoulder past him and the others, but they follow closely behind. He reaches for the handle, turning it as soundlessly as possible, expecting it to open out into the hangar or the rooms behind the glass partition - and for a slough of Jabberjays to be waiting for us.

The door opens in midair. Gale scrambles backward into Leo. On the other side of the door, a series of catwalks line the perimeter of the hangar ceiling - nowhere _near_ the hangar floor.

Leo shoulders his gun and steps out cautiously. The girders offer very little in terms of cover. Our only hope for not getting shot is to shoot Jabberjays before they're in range of us.

The hangar looks deserted except for a line of soldiers moving tanks of something noxious into Level One. The great glass wall must have shattered during the battle and an iron wall-like curtain hangs halfway down over the shards that haven't fallen out of the sills.

One of Pike's officers takes over for Leo, spreading us out along the catwalk as quietly as possible. The majority are posted at the two poles of the girders. Gale, Leo and I look for a vantage point closer to the back of the hangar, closest to the heart of Level One.

The girders vibrate. At first I assume our movement along the swaying catwalk causes it. But even the air seems to buzz, like something's causing it to concentrate into a tight space.

Then an explosion rocks the bunker. I land on my hands and knees, ears ringing, feeling suddenly afraid that the catwalk's going to plummet to the ground as it shudders and groans beneath me.

Pike's officer urges us to keep moving, joining us with five others. My ears feel like they're full of cotton, so I rely more on his gestures. The girder over the hangar maw looks ready to collapse. The others have retreated into the doorway or followed us. Spark-filled smoke from the enormous hovercraft we saw from outside issues out, filling the maw. The reek of burning metal and oil, and the sharp scent of ozone fills the air and makes my eyes tear up.

The air thunders like boulders being dropped and bounced over the ground. Lights pulse and die. Below us, a group of Mockingjay prisoners I hadn't noticed before get out of line, trying to better see the attack waged outside. Jabberjays bully them back against the wall. I study them, but it's too difficult to make out individual faces.

Next to me, Hawthorne's body tenses like a wire. He's caught sight of something below. He's on his feet, gun in hand, while we follow. One of the Jabberjay guards attacks a prisoner – a woman judging by the sound of her voice as she cries out in pain. It sends a bolt of panic down my spine. Every scream sounds like Annie's. But she's not here. She's far away and safe, I remind my palpitating heart. Too bad for the poor girl down there, though.

The guard pushes the barrel of his rifle into the prisoner's face just as Gale sends a bullet through the guard's head with perfect accuracy.

For a split second all the world goes still.

Then in a whirl of activity, all other sound is lost under the report of our rifles joining his in taking out the guards.

A familiar focus comes over me. I give up thought, except the one telling me to kill or be killed. It's served me before. And I can forget the doubts and confusion I feel when I'm with Annie.

More explosions blast the forest outside. The attack drives Jabberjays into the hangar like beetles scuttling over one another. They are pursued by the rest of Pike's fleet who arrive on foot.

It doesn't take them long to see that they've been sandwiched in by the remaining Mockingjay guard and the armed men and women who were defending the lower levels in the back of the hangar, and the fresh troops via hovercraft who are pressing in from the entrance.

I feel a tug on my sleeve and turn to see Katniss.

I gape at her. "Where'd you materialize from?"

"Down there. Let's go."

A grin threads across my lips. She's so damn abrupt, but I feel more alive than I have in weeks all of a sudden. So I follow her down the catwalk to a precarious looking set of rungs embedded in the cavern wall.

I give her a measuring glance. "It's a long way down."

"You're not scared, are you?" Katniss taunts. I suddenly remember watching her disappear into those rubbery trees in the clockwork arena. Smug thing.

"You might have the advantage in the trees," I sniff, "I was born on the rigging of a ship." Figuratively, anyway. My mother gave birth to me on a pile of canvas she was mending.

Her lips twist skeptically. "Sure."

To demonstrate my fearlessness, I shoulder my gun and grab hold of the rungs before she does. Not so bad. In fact, it's easier than climbing the rigging, which is always swaying with the ship. It's really the bullets I'm worried about, which are embedding into the rock around us. Debris sends clouds of dust and slivers of stone into the air. We're easy targets here.

I jump the rest of the way down, Katniss following shortly.

"Well, where to next?" I ask her, dodging a bullet.

"You tell me," she mutters.

"Oh, no, I'm following _your_ lead. You're the Mockingjay."

Katniss gives me the evil eye, but takes a look for herself. Then her chin tilts toward the back of the hangar toward the inside of Level One.

I look the other way, toward the mouth of the hangar where all the action is. "Are you sure? The Jabberjays are mostly in rout."

"Just in case," she replies. "My family's down there. You can do what you want."

I shrug. "I'll stick with you."

We jump into the fray, slipping into victor mode. We huddle behind a large, metal gurney for cover. It's almost peaceful, despite the bullets, the noise, the crunch of the barrel against someone's head, knowing that I'm fighting with someone I won't have to kill my partner afterward like in the Games. Not that it bothered me too much – just when I had to fight Calliope, my district partner. I didn't have Annie's hang-ups over Colm, though.

"This is pleasant," I call out to Katniss between shots.

She gives me an incredulous look. Well, she gives her next victim an incredulous look but it's meant for me.

"We won't have to kill each other when this is over," I point out. This must be what conviviality feels like.

She snorts. "We still could."

"Well…." I smirk as my eye narrows against the scope. "I won't if you won't."

"Deal."

We don't talk after that, what with the battle waging on. Eventually, we abandon the gurney to chase Jabberjays who are starting to panic and slink off. I don't think about who it is I'm killing or why or even how it feels. Not right now. And yet, it's the cowards who are trying to run that cause one emotion to slip through: loathing. To them, this battle might just be a day job, but we're talking about my future here.

Picking the runners off becomes a game that Katniss and I develop through a silent rapport, which comes with experience fighting together. I know how to lure the Jabberjays in. She goes in for the quick kill. We quickly find our way toward the mouth of the hangar.

Shooting becomes difficult. It seems that every which way I look, I see a Mockingjay soldier instead of an enemy. They get in the way of my targets. It's annoying until I realize what it means for our side.

I call out for Katniss. She's behind me, so I grab her arm and haul her off behind some shipping crates.

"Finnick?"

"I want to see what's going on outside," I tell her. "Nothing left to do in here."

Katniss nods in agreement, but we don't make it. I see a boot inch its way around the crates and Katniss and I zip back into victor mode. I'm just about to bash in the skull of the intruder when I catch the uniform. It's a highly-decorated Mockingjay getup.

"There she is," the officer says with relief. He probably has no idea that we were both about to off him. "Soldier Everdeen, come with me."

"Why?" Katniss asks with trademark suspicion. "Who are you?"

The officer, whose name is not readily apparent, ignores her second question and instead gives me a scowl as he tries to lead her away. I follow because I'm nosy, then stand in his way because he's ignores a fairly pertinent question. He gives me an unhappy frown. "Who are you?" he barks.

"You don't know who Finnick Odair is?" Katniss asks dryly. I purse my lips, arching my eyebrows in a non-verbal repeat of what she said.

"Sorry, I've only seen shots of him half-dressed," the officer grouses. Such impudence. "I'm going to have to ask you to move on, Soldier Odair."

Soldier Odair? I join a rescue mission and the military thinks they own me. Typical.

"He's with me," Katniss tells the officer. I cringe. Never thought I'd live to see the day when Katniss Everdeen acts as my pass card. "What do you want to tell _us_?"

The nameless officer with shiny medals and stripes (who I decide to call NO for no-name) huffs but doesn't protest further. "The Jabberjays are surrendering."

"That's the big secret?" I mutter. I could have told them the Jabberjays weren't long for this world.

I receive a glare and then he makes it clear he's talking specifically to Katniss. "Yes. And we want you there for everyone to see when it's official."

"Me?" Katniss balks. "But—"

Well, it's perfectly natural. She has been the face of the rebellion since the day she tried to hork poisoned berries. Maybe even before that, when she stepped in to take her sister's place as tribute. Isn't this exactly the sort of occasion I'd envisioned when Mags and I signed on to endorse her?

"Go on," I tell her. "You're the Mockingjay. We've been waiting for you." She cringes. I get it; she doesn't want to draw attention to herself. She's not that kind of girl. But she has to be if we're going to have the kind of world I want for Annie. The districts need her face to pull together and to send a clear message to Snow. So I push. "They won't keep you long." I turn to NO. "Right?"

"Of course not. Just till the surrender is official." His lips form a bland line across his face, neither a smile nor a frown. He watches her closely. I watch him closer still.

Katniss silently acquiesces. I trail behind as we push our way through the mayhem, following NO to a safety zone where the higher ups are "directing the fight."

Through handheld communication devices, I hear the sound of Captain Pike's voice announcing his arrival. He's pushing through with a small security contingent and the captain of the Jabberjay forces as a captive.

NO takes charge of Katniss, leading her toward the vehicle bearing Pike and his soldiers. I stay where I am, watching events unfold. They help hoist her into the vehicle and hand her what looks like a flare gun. Katniss raises the gun over her head, pulling the trigger.

Gold flames streak and spit into the air, then explode with a bang. The chaotic struggling around us ceases as golden light sheds off of the golden light like glitter and an image appears:

A broken band of gold and a Mockingjay in flight.

Perseverance. Victory. Freedom.

This is what I thought I'd always wanted. So why do I feel empty?

* * *

**TBC**


	11. In on the Joke

**Chapter 11**

**You're not in on the Joke**

_I'll only show you what I want you to see,_

_I got my t-t-t-t-tongue in my cheek._

_If you see them laughing, don't follow in,_

'_cause they're the butt of my joke._ – Cobra Starship

* * *

_Finnick's POV_

The hovercraft touches down in the clearing in the wee hours of the morning. The dull, pre-dawn sunlight leaves a smoky glow over everyone we've left behind. Peeta, Effie, Annie, and the soldier we left as their guard stand around a dying fire while Quintus powers down the Besra. Katniss bursts through the hatch as soon as she's able, flying into Peeta. I experience a brief moment of déjà vu. Like the day Peeta died in the arena and the look on Katniss's face before I brought him back – the moment I realized she had fallen in love with him. Although, it was I who administered the magic kiss of life. _I guess that makes me Prince Charming_, I think wryly. So why hasn't _my_ princess caught on yet?

I'm the next one out. The hovercraft feels too cramped all of a sudden and I need to see Annie again. Find out if I'm right about her reticent behavior or if I'm crazy – which is maybe a give-in for this relationship. Maybe she just has the flu.

That could be, and yet, I notice that she's not flying into my arms the way Katniss flew into Peeta's. When I spot Annie, she's standing off to the side, partially shielded from view by Effie Trinket. Bother the woman. Can't she take herself somewhere else where Annie can't hide behind her?

I stalk around the campfire, oblivious to all else but the two women in front of me.

"Finnick," says Effie crisply. I wonder if Annie's confided with her. I've met the escort on several occasions in the Games Center and she's never been this formal. Of course, champagne flowed generously during the Games, but still.

"How are you, Effie?" I give her my golden smile. "Haymitch's wants to talk to you over by the hovercraft," I lie smoothly.

"He's paging me now, is he?" she says wryly, flipping her straight red hair over her shoulder. "Couldn't bother to come himself? Or is he too drunk?"

"Unfortunately, I'm afraid he's sober."

Her lips purse. "That will teach him a lesson."

Annie looks mildly panicked as Effie marches away. She watches the ginger-haired woman disappear into the hovercraft, then her wide, green eyes switch back to me.

"Miss me?" I ask, slipping behind the safety of my Capitol persona. It's a short question but I feel stupid and vulnerable for asking – hence the mask.

I cross my arms over my chest and study her. Annie doesn't say a word. In fact, she stares at my feet. Her matted hair falls over her shoulders like a screen. I reach out to brush the chestnut snarls away from her face like I always do, but she flinches and my hand pauses in midair. My heart squeezes painfully. What happened that would make her cringe away from me like that? From doing something I used to do every single day we were able to be together for the last five years?

"Annie?" I murmur, desperate to see her eyes looking at me the way they used to. "Please, I look at me."

"Are we leaving now?" she asks, voice wavering and eyes fixed to the ground. Her throat moves as she swallows. Then she turns partially to the side so I can only see her profile through her hair.

My arms drop to my side. "Yes," I sigh, "we're leaving now."

Effie's chirpy voice calls us away to the waiting hovercrafts. And even as I turn, I know we're not going to have a chance to end this weird thing between us any time soon.

…

Nobody's around when we land in the underground hangar so we're left to fend for ourselves. All I want is to get back to my quarters with Annie, which is the only private place I know of, and hash things out. We'll come to a happy conclusion and then we can get some sleep. Hopefully. Otherwise there might be a roommate problem given how skittish she's been behaving.

Annie watches Haymitch and Effie disappear down the corridors, while I watch her. I'd forgotten how the sun leaves threads of gold in her hair in the summer and the way the long pieces sweep her lower back. I could wind my fingers through her hair and never let go. But my hands are dirty and she'd probably pull away.

"Come on, Annie." I take her hand with the one that's not gripping the bag with her dress. Her hands aren't much cleaner after the forest and I can't risk losing her down here.

"Where are we going?" she asks. We have to take the stairs because the power's on the fritz after the missile attack.

"My place. Our place. Is that all right?" Annie purses her lips and stares stonily ahead. I bite my tongue for ten seconds. "Okay, what's that supposed to mean?" I ask.

She shrugs and looks away. Fabulous. That tells me a lot.

Disappointment makes me grouchy. I have faults, like other people. And boy am I disappointed. I try to mask it while we walk through the corridors and take the stairs down to Level 5. I explain the layout of the place a little to cover up the silence. I even tell her about the Broken Oar on Level Four, an exact copy of the pub in market square back home. But she's not interested. She's listless and clutching at something in her pocket. I want to know what it is, but I can tell she's not in the mood. I'd rather press my luck with the bigger questions later when we're alone.

My own nerves ratchet up a notch the closer we get to my quarters. It doesn't seem real – being with Annie again. Having her here with me in the Underground instead of back home in Four. There's a wrongness to it. I mean, we're in a cave, but it's not _our cave_. It's not by the sea. We're not at home. And she isn't speaking to me. The last one is a travesty in and of itself! Hero rescues the princess. Princess gratefully acknowledges said hero. Kissing ensues and they live happily ever after.

But my princess is broken. And I guess I'm a shady hero. I haven't directly lied to her, not really. But the omissions are staggering.

I'm not used to the silent treatment, either. Believe me. When her arm brushes against mine by accident I fill with such frustration because we're right next to each other but our minds are so far apart. Her silence makes me antsy and brainstorming different crazy things I can do just to get her to say _something_.

But by the time we get to my place (our place?) I can't tell if I'm relieved or scared stiff.

"Well, this is it." I open the door on the narrow quarters where I've been living. I set down the bag containing her dress and grope around for the light switch. I watch her reaction to seeing the place for the first time. It's not much. Just the bed, dresser, bathroom. A fold-down table with one chair pushed off to the side. Maybe HR will allow us to move to a larger flat now that there's two of us. This pad's meant for singles.

Annie notices the one bed when I set the bag down on it. "Where will I be staying?" she asks indifferently – which means she's feeling anything but indifferent.

I blink. Annie and I have shared a bed before. In fact, she suggested it after I admitted that I still had nightmares about the Games from time to time.

"These are my quarters, but I thought we'd stay here together." That had been my plan all along when I still operated under the best of all possible scenarios – which included Annie still acting like my lover.

Annie's hand slips back into her pocket. What is in there that's so important to her that she has to reach for it every time she's uncomfortable? "I don't think staying in the same room is a good idea," she mumbles.

She could have said that when I asked on Level 1. Not that I'd have known what to do. I knuckle my forehead. "Annie, we're engaged. I'm not pressuring you into anything, but it seems ridiculous to take a second room when quarters are already scarce without the added refugees," I try to reason.

"I'll find a place for myself," she tells me.

I chuckled darkly. _Like hell you will, Annie_. "You aren't hunting for quarters. If it's so important for you to have separate establishments, then _I'll_ go."

She takes her hand out of her pocket and frowns at me. "I can care for myself."

What's with the attitude? I hold my hands up, hopefully in a placating manner. "I know you can," I sooth, "but let's be practical, Annie. Do you even remember which floor we're on? Or how many levels there are down here? Or the name of the office where they deal with housing? And these people just had their home blown apart. If they're awake right now, then they're trying to sort out the mess in the Underground."

Annie's shoulders droop, so I guess I'm right. She wouldn't know where to start. I feel bad for pointing it out. It's my fault really, and Mags's. We've enable her too much to depend on us. We pitied her and took care of her. I didn't see it until the Quarter Quell announcement, which made the possibility that she'd be alone quite real. My own love for her blinded me to the harm.

"You must think I'm a fool," Annie groans into her hands. She coughs like she always does when she's trying hard not to cry.

That breaks the invisible wall keeping me at arm's distance. Her crying hurts more than anything. I reach for her shoulders, skimming my hands down her arms till I'm holding her hands away from her face. "Why would I think that?" I ask with more gentleness. "I've never thought you were a fool. If anything, I'm the fool. Maybe I want to protect you too much."

Annie's lips press into a thin line, staring at our joined hands. "You don't have to lie about it anymore, Finnick. After day it doesn't matter anymore."

I open my mouth to reply and close it again. I count to ten. Take a deep breath because now this is crazy talk. "I don't lie to you, Annie." I hesitate just for a second or two. Is this, in fact, a lie? The omissions about the rebellion? About the Quell? I always told her I couldn't explain myself. I asked her to trust me and she said she did. I haven't lied. Just haven't been exactly honest about that. I have, however, been completely honest about one thing: how I feel about Annie - _especially_ Annie.

Yet, I've hesitated too long. Annie's eyes harden beneath her arched eyebrows. When have her eyes ever looked at _me _that way? "No?"

I turn around so she can't see the look of frustration on my face. My fingers scrabble through my hair. I think I pull some of it out. Clearly Annie's got something else on her mind and I have no clue what it is.

"Why are you challenging everything I say all of a sudden?" I ask through gritted teeth.

Annie sinks onto the bed. "You can't think of one reason why I might have to?" she says.

My voice drops like my stomach. Just like my Games strategy, I take the offensive. "You may know what's going on here, but I am at a loss to understand it."

"Finnick," she sighs wearily.

I turn to look at Annie, hoping she'll say my name again. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Disappointment and longing and frustration battle it out with each other to become the lead emotion I'm feeling.

I lean against the dresser, feeling utterly wiped. It's the worst time to duke things out, when I'm most likely to say something I'll regret. But I can't let this go any longer. "This isn't what I expected," I tell her, "when I pictured seeing you again."

"Me either," Annie agrees quietly. Her arms fold over her midriff, enclosing her like a shell. "I didn't think I would ever see you again."

"I'm here now," I say. "So what's going on?"

Annie's lips begin to quiver. It gets worse the more she tries to control it. Her eyes shut tight and I feel like she's blocking me out.

"Annie, does this have to do with Mags?" I ask haltingly. It's more painful to say than I thought. I don't know what I'll do if she blames me for Mags's death. It would eat me to death. "Do you think Mag's death is my fault? Is that why we're acting like strangers right now?"

Annie's eyes fly open. She looks shocked. "No!" she cries. "Finnick, no."

It's the first flash of Annie's normal self. One tiny bit of encouragement that she'll come back to me. I push myself off the dresser, reaching for her hands. "Then what?"

She startles and twists away quickly, hitting her shoulder on the footboard. A small gasp of pain escapes her lips and rush to her side.

"Sorry, Annie, I…"

"Just go, Finnick. Please," she whimpers.

For a moment I picture myself as she might. One big guy towering over her. The image is so ugly that I find myself obeying, making it to the door. And then it occurs to me – this isn't about Mags. Annie said so. I know it's not something I've done. It couldn't be. And I know that it's not Annie herself. She loves me. She said so over and over. So there's only one conclusion, as far as I know, for why she's behaving so out of character.

It's the Capitol. They've messed with her – they must have. Knowing that she has nothing to offer them, except to act as a piece of bait, they've tried to take away everything from her that they could. Who knows what they've done to mess with her mind, but she's so vulnerable it wouldn't take a whole lot. Anger courses through me just thinking about them taking advantage of her – and Annie going through this all alone when I should have been there with her.

I step away from the door, back toward her. "Annie, what did they do to you? In the Capitol?" I ask bluntly. "What happened?"

Annie's lips part in surprise and…panic? She swallows and reaches into her pocket again, but catches herself and pulls her hand out like it's on fire.

And then it happens. She goes blank. Withdraws like she did on the day Snow announced the Quarter Quell. Only it's not a deep withdrawal. She'll talk but she's not connected to what's happening right now.

"Nothing," she says lifelessly.

"Annie, you can tell me. I swear." My voice drops as I reach for every ounce of sincerity I can muster. "Everything's going to be all right."

Her hand lands on the bag containing her dress as she rests it on the bed. She stares at it blankly for a moment. "Take the dress with you when you go," she murmurs. "It belongs to you."

"Annie," I gasp. Hurt writes itself all over me as she tries to hand me back the dress I bought from Cinna specifically for her. Even though I couldn't promise her or myself that we'd ever have a chance to use it, I sent it to her anyway hoping that maybe we would. "You didn't like it?"

"I said I did. It's beautiful. But," her voice breaks. Pain lances my chest to hear it. "It's no use, Finnick."

Those four words leave me paralyzed and gasping for air. No use? What is this? Is she breaking off the engagement?

"Why?" I demand, no longer retreating toward the doorway. "Annie, please explain to me what's going on in your head."

"It's not my head, Finn." She pinches herself, like she's punishing herself for using my nickname. "It's you."

Me? What about the Capitol? "But you said –"

Annie reaches into her pocket, pulling out a folded, glossy piece of paper and hands it to me. At first I don't understand. My brain's offline or something. Then slowly I take it in my hands, unfolding a photograph.

The blood drains from my face. I literally feel it disappear – the way it pinches my nose as the oxygen cuts off, leaving me numb. I can't breathe for what feels like forever. I'm on dry land and drowning.

It's a photo of me. A shock of bronze hair is visible over the top of a bathroom stall. Those are my shoes below. And a woman's trim legs close to mine. I curse under my breath, not because of the photo but because of the implication.

I wouldn't have to notice the details that make me the subject of this photo because I remember that encounter perfectly. It's my job to remember.

And now there's no denying it to Annie. I know what this photo implies, because I contrived it to look that way. It's my job to _stage _these encounters. Plutarch tells me who and when. I tell him where. And then I deliver.

"I know about you now," Annie whimpers. And now I know the source of this mixed up day. This photo has been in the back of her mind, in her pocket, every time she's looked at me today. And she thinks she understands.

"I know all about it now," Annie says, as if reading my thoughts.

But this particular scene has a twist to it. I should feel relieved. I don't. I am hollow. That's who the woman I love sees when she looks at me: the Capitol's slag.

"You only know what the Capitol was meant to think." I throw the photo down on the dresser, face down.

Her eyebrows knit together. "What do you mean?"

"It's supposed to look that way," I continue woodenly, pointing to the photo. "But it's not like that at all."

"How can I believe you?" Annie moans. "If you've led me on all this time? I believed that you love me. Now I know I'm just one of _them_."

"I do love you, Annie. Only you," I protest.

"You could be lying to me."

"I need Mags to help me explain." I sink onto the bed, hands shaking.

"You don't need Mags to explain anything, Finnick," Annie says sadly. "She wasn't straight with me either."

I take a steady breath. Maybe not, but god I wish she were here right now. Her family's falling apart. Right now it's my word against the photograph. Maybe Haymitch will vouch for me. Will Annie even believe him, a drunk she only knows through me?

"Well?"

"I've been a spying on the Capitol for about eight years," I say quickly. There's a tick in my throat that comes with speaking openly about a long-term secret. I squelch the need to look over my shoulder.

Annie slumps back against the footboard like a deflating balloon. "So you did lead me on. He was right."

"I led everyone on _but_ you, Annie. I had to. How do you think any of the rebellion could be possible? People like Haymitch, Mags and I putting information into people's hands."

"Information?"

"About the Capitol."

"By hooking up?" Her whole face twists with disgust. "Finnick, Dr. Celsus showed me worse photographs than this."

"Dr. Celsus?" Who the hell is he? The one who gave Annie this trash and fed her lies? The rigid set of her shoulders tells me everything I need to know.

I try to look her in the eye. "I never cheated on you with anyone. I was the eyes and ears of the operation, learning whatever I could about Snow."

"From gorgeous women?" she says skeptically. "The sort that sent you all those trashy letters and gifts?"

I gape at her. "You said you didn't read those." Annie's eyes dart to the floor, meaning that she'd lied. "I see. You never trusted me, did you?" I say bitterly.

Her head snaps back up. "Of course I trusted you. Why else do you think that this is so horrible for me? You duped me." Her green eyes shine with unshed tears and shame.

"But I didn't! I told you up front that I had to keep my own secrets, but that you didn't have anything to fear about what I did in the Capitol."

"And now I see how stupid I've been," she says. "Why didn't you simply stop the day you first told me that you were in love with me, down at the beach?"

"Mags let me in on the rebellion when I turned sixteen – before I met you. It became a game. I never felt bothered by it, until I met you, but by then it was too late to stop. But I never did _anything_ that would compromise your trust. Hell, Annie, I kept my role in this rebellion to give you a better life, not so I could _hook up_ whenever I wanted."

Annie rubs her forehead. "Why didn't you tell me you were spying then? Why keep it a secret if you're innocent?"

"Because of what the Capitol would have done to _you_ if the rebellion failed or you were taken. If officials in the Capitol thought you had any useful information, they'd torture you, Annie. Do you know what it's like to have that constantly on the back of your mind? Knowing the people you love are constantly in danger because of what you're doing? What you have to do?"

"I don't know, Finnick, I…"

"Annie, when I found out that they'd moved you to the Capitol, I thought for sure you were a goner. I wished they'd let me die in the arena with Mags," I confess. "You mean more to me than anything. And don't bet that the Capitol didn't know that fact."

Annie's face pales till it looks transparent. "I'm so confused," she sighs.

"Didn't they question you at all?" I ask. "What were those pills for? To make you talk?"

"The pills made me relax. Sort of. They were too strong and made me sick, so I stopped taking them." Her eyes grow thoughtful as if my words finally have a ring of truth to her. She says reluctantly, "They told me that I'd been transferred for safe keeping. That rebels had broken into the arena to kill the tributes to make a point against the Capitol. And that they might be out for the rest of the remaining victors."

"Who told you this?"

"Agrippina. She came with me on the train. And then Dr. Celsus. He said you were part of the rebellion and that you'd left me behind to rot."

"Forgive me, Annie, but that's bullshit. Why would you ever listen to anything Agrippina says?" I'm so angry at this unknown doctor my hands are shaking. But I also feel incredulous. "After everything we've been through, you couldn't trust your own feelings about me over some quack doctor in the Capitol? Where was your faith, Annie?"

Her composure, such as it is, breaks. "That's what it looked like, Finnick. Even without him telling me, I couldn't understand how you could volunteer—"

I balk. "Volunteer? I didn't volunteer."

"Abel said you would if your name wasn't drawn," she accuses angrily.

My hands clench into fists. "I should have killed him when I had the chance."

"It's not Abel's fault if it's the truth," Annie protests. Her voice sounds wet. "We were supposed to get married and you chose this rebellion over me. You were going to volunteer to leave me. And I thought you were dead when the arena exploded. Mags died taking my place and then you after her. Both of you left me _alone_. And then I find out that you're alive somewhere, a part of this rebellion you kept secret from me. I know I'm messed up and hopeless. What was I supposed to think?"

"That I had a damn good reason for it all, Annie," I say stonily. "I wasn't lying when I said I loved you and that I wanted to marry you. You're not hopeless and you aren't crazy – I don't care what lies that quack was spouting out and making you believe. If you have a fault, it's thinking too badly about yourself. Annie, I still love you, and I still want to marry you. But none of that could happen if this rebellion didn't work first – not after the Capitol threw in a wrench by reaping victors for the Quarter Quell. You can believe me about that."

"I don't know – I have to think. Dr. Celsus said I depended on you too much," she mumbles.

"Maybe he's right with that one, but that doesn't mean you can't _trust _me to tell you the truth – when I'm able – and to know you better than _he _does. That man had one thing on his mind and that's to use you for information. When that didn't work, he used these photographs to turn you against me should I ever get the chance to come back for you. Besides, there's one thing you overlooked."

Annie's puzzled eyes meet mine. "What is that?"

"Mags's cane in the corner of the stall." I pick up the photo from the dresser and toss it in Annie's lap before sitting down next to her.

"What?"

I point to the cane, barely visible in the shadows beneath the stall wall. "Yeah. Those are her legs. Not too shabby for an 80-something woman who had to use a cane," I quip.

"But…," Annie gasps.

"Agrippina made her wear heavy duty pantyhose. You should have seen Mags's face before the banquet."

Annie clutches the photo, giving me a tight-lipped frown. "There were other photographs, Finnick. And other women."

"I know."

"Who?" she asks.

Is she really asking me who I 'philandered" with? This conversation gets worse and worse. I wrack my brains trying to think of a tame-ish example that will get Annie off my back.

"One woman I saw regularly was Bianca McFarlane. Her husband served as one of President Snow's councilmen. She's a talkative drunk. Has a son my age. You've met him."

"Did you like her?"

I wince and give Annie an incredulous look. "I liked the information they gave me. Plutarch Heavensbee received an unprecedented promotion from engineer to Game Maker five years ago because of Mrs. McFarlane snooping on her husband and being a horrible secret keeper. Put Heavensbee right where we needed him to be."

And I find myself telling her about more women, like Claudius Templesmith's daughters, even President Snow's granddaughter once – though that one was more of an ego boost than informative. She was a hard nut to crack, but what do you expect from Snow's runts?

"You used them," Annie reprimands, much to my surprise.

"Hmph. They used me right back, so don't feel too sorry for the poor dears," I wryly reply.

"You flirted with them," she grouses.

I raise my eyes to the ceiling and groan, wishing the scintillating discussion of the secret life of Finnick Odair would come to an end. "Yes. That's one way they open up to me," I snap. "The Capitol wanted a playboy and they got one. They didn't take into account that he'd have brains and friends in the shadows. See, Annie, they're the butt of my joke – not you."

She looks at me wistfully. "Did you kiss them?"

I hesitate. "Not in the last five years."

"Before that?"

"Annie," I say, lowering my voice. "Don't ask questions if you don't want the answers."

Annie falls silent. Her head droops, sending her hair over her shoulders, pooling in her lap. I've always loved her hair, but I hate how it's become a curtain to keep me out. Which reminds me…

"Now let me ask you something." Annie's head lifts slightly so that she can see me. "Why did you agree to come down to this flat if you had no intention of staying with me?"

"I didn't know where else to go and…." Annie breathes. It's one of her exercises, a barely noticeable one except that Mags and I worked with her on it. "And I had to show you the photo…so that you would know that I know. Then we could go our separate ways knowing the truth."

"Separate ways." I laugh once, dryly. Nothing I've said has relieved her mind? She doesn't believe me. "You know how to kick a guy. Guess you're more of a victor than it gave you credit for."

"What does that mean?" Annie squeaks.

"It means…you're trying to survive." I leave it at that. There's no point in telling her that she's wasted me. Five years trying to make the world better for her. Aiding the rebellion since the age of sixteen, only to lose it all. What is that called when your efforts to succeed are the things that perpetuate your ruin? I don't know.

I find myself reaching for the doorknob, turning it. "I guess I should go," I murmur.

It takes a moment before I actually do it. I stare at the knob and my fingers wrapped around it. When I clear this threshold it could be permanent. Oddly, I'd rather stay in this room with Annie loathing me than step outside into nothing. But I have to because that's what she's asked for. But before I do, I want to be completely honest, omitting nothing.

Light from the hallway spills through the door as it inches open. It sends the shadows back so that I can see her eyes better.

"I'll say one more thing before I go. I won't apologize for the life I led before I met you, Annie. But since the night of your victory dinner in District 2, I have done all I can to deserve you. That's the absolute truth."

Her beautiful lips part, asking a silent question. I step through the door and close it before she has a chance to voice her question – if this is another lie. I'm not leaving on that note – I'm keeping my truth.

I make it to the lifts before I remember that they're off limits – and that Annie's not stopping me. I didn't expect her to try.

Then why does it hurt so badly? The next steps I take down the hall or the steps of an old man, a homeless one who has nowhere to go.

I make it another twenty feet down the hallway when the sound of the pin pulling back on a door reaches my ears. I stop in my tracks and slowly pivot around.

Annie.

"Finn! Wait."

That's all she has to say.

* * *

**To be concluded**


	12. Chapter 12

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**Chapter 12**

**This is where the story ends** - The Fray

* * *

_Annie's POV_

I let Finnick leave. The thought feels like an accusation.

"_I have done all I can to deserve you. That's the absolute truth."_

That's when I realize that I believe him. As soon as the door closes and he disappears into this unknown underbelly place.

It's like the moment he realized that someone in District 2 put brine in my glass – only this is _my_ error in judgment, not his. I feel like a fool. Like Finnick, only going by what I could see instead of what I knew in my heart to be true.

And soon he'll be gone and I won't know how to find him. Panic freezes in my chest. I bruise my hip against the bedstead in my haste to circle around it and out the door. The handle sticks. I pull harder.

Finnick's already yards down the corridor. The bag hanging from his arm lazily slaps his lower leg as he plods away from me.

He stops, alerted by the sound of the door opening. The bag swings on his arm. Slowly his head turns, dead eyes set on my face. His cheeks look pale in the dim slivers of light coming from the wall lamps.

I cling to the doorpost, waiting for him to turn around fully. It feels like ages before he does, though it's only a second or two. And when I see his face I can't force any words from my mouth. He looks ruined. He must have been yanking his hair out of place after he left. Strands hang over his face or stand up from his forehead. Finnick's eyes are wide and intense. His lips form a line like a tightrope.

"Finn! Wait," I gasp, my heart in my throat.

"Annie?" he rasps. It sounds like he has sand in his throat. He steps toward me, then checks himself.

I edge my way along the wall toward him, feeling the rough texture of the stone beneath my hands. After half a dozen steps my hand reaches out for him. Finnick's lips part as the intent of the gesture dawns on him. Then he's at my side.

"I believe you – I—." My feet leave the ground as Finnick's arms lift me into himself. The rest of my garbled words are lost between our lips. My arms wrap around his neck while his crush my waist to his body. My face becomes wet – they're his tears, but that breaks the levee within me as well.

When I can't breathe anymore, I have to drag my lips away from his, burying my face against his throat. "Where were you going?"

Finnick swallows. "I…don't actually know."

My fingers comb his hair. "Stay with me."

"Are you sure, Annie?" he breathes. His arms grasp me tighter against any possible doubt. "After everything?"

I nod my head against his shoulder. "I'm choosing to believe you, over Dr. Celsus, over Haymitch or whatever anyone else has to say about you. If I can't trust my own intuition then it won't matter if I believe either of them."

"Annie…"

"Wait, Finnick." I press my finger against his lips. "My heart tells me that I can trust yours. I don't know why I forgot that. And what I want, Finnick, is everything we talked about in Mags's cave."

For the first time, Finnick looks like himself. "I love you, Annie." He glances away, then forces himself to look me in the eye, as though he were afraid. "Are you going to marry me still?" he asks.

My eyes widen. "Right now?"

"Well, we can wait until tomorrow," he concedes.

I sigh. "I wanted to get married at home." If there's anything left of it.

Finnick grimaces. "Don't know when that will happen. War's not over yet. Not by a long shot."

"Can you wait?" I ask.

Finnick sputters. "Can you?"

I shrug, showing a smidge of fortitude.

"I mean, we've got the dress, haven't we?" he presses, sounding so like his old self that I experience déjà vu. "And let's face it, we're a beautiful couple, but we're not getting any younger."

"The dress was never the important thing, though it is beautiful," I tell him. "I'd have married you, even if I had to wear moldy canvas."

He grimaces again. "Moldy canvas? You're offending my delicate sensibilities."

"Sorry." I pat his cheek. "I forgot how sensitive you are about ugly things."

Finnick sniffs haughtily. "And I went through so much trouble getting Cinna's gown to you."

"Not as much trouble as I went through to keep it," I remind him. "I—"

Now Finnick presses his finger against my lips. His intense, green eyes pour into mine. "Shh. Let's not talk about the dress anymore. In fact, let's stop talking."

Expectations charge the air around us. It's been there for a while, but now we said so much. What more is there? It's making it harder to ignore the current between us. My hand still pressed to my chest. The bag with the dress dangles from his other arm. He lets it slip off and fall to the ground. I watch it slouch over then gazes up at him.

His hands on my hips guide me backward into his room. Our bodies form a familiar symmetry, casting one shadow. Later, as we fall asleep, my ear against his heart, I hear the sea.

* * *

**The End**


End file.
